The Return of the Shadow
by JunoMagic
Summary: This is the story of a misplaced elf, living homeless in the streets of Berlin. Is it fate or only bad luck that led him so far away from his home? Sequel to 'Only a Game' and 'The Tides of Time'. AU, OFC, OMC. On hiatus until further notice.
1. A Song of Prayer

**Disclaimer:** Middle Earth, Sindarin, Quenya (although I personally think it should be impossible to copyright a language), and every person, elf, ent, man, dwarf, hobbit and other creature or place connected with "The Lord of the Rings" or any other work by J.R.R. Tolkien or the material edited by Christopher Tolkien, in short: EVERYTHING belongs to J.R.R. Tolkien's heirs, the Tolkien Estate.

This is fan fiction written just for fun.  
No money is made with it.  
No copyright infringement of any kind is intended.  
In other words: I have no money, I make no money, don't sue.

Mina and the plot (whatever there will be of it, eventually) belong to me.  
If you want to archive or use anything that I have written, you have to ask my permission or suffer my wrath.

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**1. Song of Prayer**

It was November. It was a grey and rainy day in November, in Berlin. Berlin is a city that is only beautiful in the summer. If the weather is cold, the wind cuts like a knife. There are no hills around Berlin, to ward off the weather. The business-towers and apartment-blocks serve only to channel the strength of the wind, they offer no shelter.

It was raining, too. Everything was wet, cold, grey and faintly grubby, if not down-right dirty.

The trains and busses were packed with bad-tempered people. The air was bad with the crowded bodies and the damp smell of clothes, not all of them clean or well kept.

There are many poor and unemployed in Berlin. Flotsam of all countries, they had somehow ended up in the capital of Germany, just the same as it is in all great cities of our world.

The woman in the black business suit slumped tiredly on her seat of the S-Bahn, as the rapid transit trains are called in Berlin. She pulled a small black suitcase closer to her feet as a Polish worker spat something unintelligible at her. It was somewhere on the main passage straight through the city, passing from the West to the East. Even fourteen years after the reunification those directions were the important ones in Berlin. Although now, after spending millions of Deutsche Mark, Euros and Dollars on rebuilding the city, sometimes the old western quarters were more run down than the eastern parts of the city.

At the neckline of the woman's blazer a forgotten name tag blinked where a brooch would have been more adequately placed. "Wilhelmina Elbenstern, Tolkien Society, Germany", the sign read, but nobody noticed her. Perhaps she was just too hunched from the exhaustion of traveling for people to notice her. She was neither fat nor ugly. She had black, shoulder-length hair, bound at the back of her neck into a neat pony-tail. At her temples two or three streaks of her hair had turned already silver, although she could not be much older than thirty. Her face was thin and bony, her nose slightly hooked, but her lips were wide and sensuous, and she had a slight dimple in her chin.

Mina had just returned from a conference in Milwaukee, and the jet lag had hit her hard.

And on Monday she had to return to her main job, teaching Old and Middle English to students studying to become English teachers at the Free University of Berlin. Students, who were as rule, less than enthusiastic about linguistics. She sighed. Sometimes she was not very enthusiastic about her day job, either.

She would really have preferred to live for her passion.

Her passion was the elvish languages J.R.R. Tolkien had developed. In her opinion, these languages were the most beautiful languages in the world, and Tolkien was the greatest linguistic genius, who had ever lived. She dreamed of translating "The Lords of the Rings" into Sindarin. As it was, she could count herself lucky to get paid at least for a few hours of all the work she did for the Tolkien Society in Germany.

It was a hard life, to work on two demanding jobs at once, neither of which was well paid.

It was a tight-rope walk.

It was a precarious balance between living her dream and paying the rent.

A balance, which did not leave much room for anything else. A solitary life, she told herself, ill-suited for a normal relationship.

Whatever the reason, she was thirty-three and still alone. The odd mixture of being a linguist and a Tolkien fanatic had put quite a number of young lawyers or managers off the slender, dark-haired woman in the end.

Most of the time she did not even notice that she was lonely. But tonight, tired from the long flight and the exhausting week at the annual conference of Tolkien scholars, she would have loved to have someone meet her at the airport, take her home and put her to bed with a few kind words.

Her temples were throbbing with exhaustion as she rose from her seat and walked to the doors of the train. She had to get off at the next stop. Another five minutes of walking through the cold November drizzle and she'd be home in her small apartment. It was a small apartment, in an old, but well restored building in the East of Berlin, on the fifth floor of an apartment house. It looked to the back and the only thing of luxury about it was a small balcony with potted herbs and lavender during the summer.

Leaving the train she almost collided with a young tramp. There seemed to be more and more beggars and vagabonds on the streets with the economy ever declining. She had a fleeting impression of incredibly sad silver-grey eyes and a mass of dirty, tangled dreadlocks reaching down to too thin shoulders. He carried a guitar, and as the train left the station, he started singing and playing, to ask for some money in exchange for his music – to buy a drink, some food or drugs.

Most of the time, these down-on-their-luck street musicians could barely hold their tune. But this one was different. His dark voice rose clear and firm, echoing through the station, ringing in tune with the soft, expert strumming of his guitar.

But what made her gasp and turn on her heels was not the melody or the beauty of his voice.

It was the song he was singing.

She knew the words by heart.

But she had never heard them to this melody.

And she had never heard them pronounced this way.

_A Gilthoniel Elbereth!  
__o menel plan-diriel,  
__le nallon sí di'nguruthos!  
__A tiro nin, Fanuilos._

It was an elvish hymn. A Sindarin song Tolkien had used several times in "The Lord of the Rings". It was a prayer to one of the Valar, Varda, the goddess of stars.

But even as Mina turned to get back on the train to ask the tramp where he had learned this song, the doors were closing, and the train was gone.

Only when a fat woman bumped into her and told her in no uncertain terms that she was blocking the traffic and should get the hell away from here, Mina shook herself out of her daze.

As she walked to her apartment through the cold November evening, hurrying to escape the rain and the wind, the song of the young tramp echoed in her mind. The melody had been so beautiful and so sad; she had never heard that hymn with a melody, which really seemed to fit. Some versions almost touched the soul of this song, but it remained always an 'almost' in her opinion. But even more than the haunting melody, the words repeated themselves over and over again in her mind. The clear and unusual pronunciation of the words. This lilting pronunciation, which sounded slightly-off the true, because it was different from the way she was used to hear Sindarin pronounced.

It had almost sounded, as if the tramp had been born to the language. But, of course that was not possible.

And yet, as she walked, she could get neither the words nor the melody out of her mind.

Somehow, Mina reflected, unconsciously humming the tune she had heard, somehow this tramp had sung this hymn as if he had meant every word of it. And that was really impossible. The translation of this particular song was not in the books. There simply could not exist a tramp, who was enough of a Tolkien fan to have come across the translation of this song.

And yet, the young man had sung this song as if he had meant every word of it.

As if it really was a plea uttered in despair, as if he really hoped that somewhere there was a Queen of Stars to hear his prayer and help him.

Finally Mina reached her apartment. She locked the door behind her carefully. Berlin was a dangerous city, and she owned no weapon. She made herself some soup and vanilla tea and then went to bed, falling asleep at once and with no dreams at all.

Out on the streets the cold November rain kept falling, blown in icy drifts by an eastern wind.

Homeless and beggars huddled together or fled to the shelters run by the city council to aid the poor and the homeless. Some of them continued their business in the train stations, begging in strategically placed positions, which were won in bitter fights on a daily basis. The street musicians moved from the squares to the trains.

Living out in the streets had always been rough. But in times when people started thinking twice about buying carousel rides for their children at a fair, it was even harder to get by in the streets. If winter kept the promise made by this dreary November, quite a number of homeless people would never see the spring.

A song of prayer drifted to the sky from somewhere in the streets.

But it was directed at a goddess far away from this earth, and apparently remained unnoticed.

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**A/N:** This might be the beginning of the sequel of "The Tides", but since I still don't have the money to buy "The History of Middle Earth" you will have to wait several months to see any real progress on this story. Nevertheless I would very much like to know what you think about it. 


	2. The Music in my Heart

**2. "The music in my heart I bore, long after it was heard no more."**

When Mina woke early in the morning the next day, she was almost convinced that she had imagined hearing the Sindarin song on the train the day before.

The jet lag and the aftermath of the conference, she told herself. The song of this street musician had probably been Gaelic, or perhaps one of the Baltic languages. There were so many beggars from Eastern Europe out on the streets nowadays that you heard the strangest dialects at every corner.

There simply was no way that a tramp with dreadlocks could actually speak or sing in Sindarin better than a Tolkien scholar.

That was simply impossible.

Mina spent a lazy Sunday at home, preparing her course-work for Monday, mainly exercises to familiarize her students with Chaucer. It was pretty boring stuff, but necessary for beginners.

She sighed. Most of her students would stay beginners, dropping the subject as soon as their curriculum allowed them to.

After all, those ancient forms of English were really good for nothing this day and age. A demanding, boring and absolutely pointless subject.

Mina sighed again. She did great, extravagant sighs, as well as small, tried ones.

She lived alone, so she did not bother anyone but herself with her sighs.

A few years ago her other job, working for the German Tolkien society, had earned her even more disbelieving and pitying looks than her teaching job. Who ever had heard of someone working on artificial languages created for a fantasy novel?

Only when the movies had been released, this had changed.

She had to thank Peter Jackson and Orlando Bloom to thank for the third job she was doing nowadays. And it was a quite well-paid job, too; at least in comparison to her other two jobs.

She was teaching Sindarin once a week with the adult education program of the city of Berlin. There was a long waiting list for each course, and this was work she truly enjoyed. But the participants were mostly girls around twenty, give and take a few years, and it was impossible to acquire any real skill speaking Sindarin in a couple of evenings, anyway.

No, he could not have learned Sindarin that way.

And she was the only one in Germany teaching real classes in Sindarin. The authors of the leading German dictionaries and grammars of Sindarin and Quenya only offered occasional weekend-courses. So she could rule out that possibility, too.

Why was she still thinking about this tramp at all, she thought irritably, and went into her tiny kitchen to make herself another pot of rooibush-tea.

It had not been Sindarin anyway. That had been only her jet lag talking, or rather singing.

She sat down at her small kitchen table, lighting the big white church candle sitting in an old chipped saucer at the center of the table. The sky outside was already dark and grey again, and heavy raindrops were blown against her kitchen window by a fierce November wind.

Five stories above the busy streets of Berlin, with her windows facing the inner courtyard of her block of apartment buildings, it was very quiet. The noise of the traffic was barely audible, the ticking of her grandfather clock loud in comparison.

Mina looked out into the grey dusk of fall and suddenly felt lonely. It was a loneliness grown into a steady ache deep inside her bones over the years, an almost constant companion of her life. Wearily she rubbed at her temples. She knew this feeling from the past. The conference had been exciting and intense; meeting people, who loved Tolkien and his languages as much as she did, was exhilarating.

And now she simply felt out of tune with her normal, solitary life back in Berlin.

Pains of withdrawal, she mused.

There had been many demanding and intellectually stimulating lectures and discussions, and heated debates with a group of young Tolkien scholars, who were trying to develop new words in Sindarin, endeavoring to turn it into a real language, which could be spoken like English or German. Some of the older scholars had been horribly affronted by that notion, calling it arrogance and blasphemy, but she had been intrigued beyond measure. She had even been brave enough to get the information how to contact those young scientists and linguists. Once again she sighed. Perhaps she should not yet give up on her desire of translating "The Lord of the Rings" into Sindarin. Perhaps it was possible, after all, to develop all those missing words and grammatical intricacies in a scientifically acceptable way…

Only very reluctantly she returned to her desk and the Chaucer.

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In class the next morning she was still distracted and not up to her usual, demanding form; to the secret relief of her students, who were tired from a weekend of parties and dealings with friends and lovers. But she did not forget to give them enough homework to last for the week, ignoring groans and snide remarks.

After class there was a faculty meeting. Stoically she endured the customary teasing about her activities for the Tolkien Society, as always connected with her surname, "Elbenstern", which means "elf star" in English. Apparently her colleagues would never grow tired of this joke. She ignored the jokes and questions with her usual cool demeanor, which had earned her the title "Dr. Iceberg".

She was more than relieved when she was finally on her way back home.

On the train back to her apartment from the university, she caught herself looking around for a dark, slender figure with dreadlocks and a guitar slung across the back. She managed to miss her station and was thoroughly annoyed with herself by the time she finally reached her apartment. There was no excuse for such foolishness.

You need to get your head examined, Mina, she said to herself out loud, when she realized she had been humming the melody of the tramp's song while chopping onions for her dinner.

Resolutely she switched on the radio and grimaced. They had to play "Into the West" by Annie Lennox just now, of course.

She was on the brink of turning into a really strange old maid.

She sighed.

"I am turning into a classic old maid anyway," she told the carrots, which were waiting patiently to be cut into small pieces. "I might as well go all the way."

She turned up the volume and started singing to the tune.

Although she was not aware of it, she had a very beautiful singing voice, a slightly smoky alto register, and she had learned how to sing from her earliest childhood, singing in the parish choir.

When the vegetable stew was finally simmering gently on the stove, and the radio station had switched to rock songs, as it always did later in the evening, Mina was still visualizing grey elegant buildings framing a harbor that did not really exist at all.

When the stew was ready, she lit the candle on her kitchen table again. She tried to take time preparing and eating her solitary meals. It was not healthy to gobble down food watching TV or working on the side of the table, although she did both occasionally, of course. Such bad habits were all too easily acquired living alone. But she had been brought up not to have bad habits. And she was fairly strict with herself.

She softly blew on the vegetable stew on her spoon. "Perhaps I should get me a cat," she told the candle. "Then I could pretend I was talking to the cat instead of knowing I was slowly turning strange here, talking to myself all the time."

After she had cleared away her dishes and washed up the utensils, she had needed for cooking, she returned to her desk.

Her living room was pretty large, her haven, her sanctuary: lined with bookshelves from the floor to the ceiling, every wall. And the shelves were full to overflowing with books; not only Tolkien and books about linguistics, but Shakespeare, poetry, romance novels, various dictionaries and encyclopedias and strange ancient books she picked up at flea markets.

Her desk, which was turned towards the balcony, was her pride and joy. It was art nouveau, solid, beautifully carved maple wood, glowing faintly golden in the pale light of the evening sun slanting into the room.

She did own a small TV and an excellent DVD- player with a surround system of high quality loud-speakers, arranged neatly around a small, comfortable red couch, which could be turned into a bed, should a guest want to stay overnight.

Tonight, however, she did not watch TV, but switched on her Dell-notebook and accessed the internet to survey the various sites interesting for Tolkien scholars on the internet. But there was nothing new or exciting on tonight, so she ended up only checking her e-mails and then closing the connection again.

Afterwards she worked for an hour at her translation of "The Lord of the Rings". But even with her excellent knowledge of Sindarin, the work was agonizingly slow, and more often than not she had the feeling that most of her pages consisted of question marks or gaps. The vocabulary Tolkien had developed was simply too limited, and there were too many aspects of the complicated grammar he had invented that would probably remain unclear for all eternity.

But the language was so heartbreakingly beautiful!

And there was even more to it. She also enjoyed getting to know the books literally word by word. She felt as if she was swept away into this distant realm of myth and magic, leaving this noisy, busy, dreary world far behind her. This feeling had intensified since she had watched Peter Jackson's brilliant movies. Where her imagination had failed before, the visuals of the movies now supplied the missing images.

Sometimes she felt as if she was homesick for Middle Earth. Especially during the winter and the fall, when the world was so cold and grey, and loneliness threatened to turn into depression, she longed for an escape into this most magical of all worlds.

Staring out into the rainy evening, her thoughts turned to Tolkien's description of the sea longing, the longing for Aman, which the elves experienced in Middle Earth.

Did it feel like that?

Like a constant ache in the bones? Weariness tinged with despair?

She sighed. Mina, Mina, Mina, she reprimanded herself. Come off it. You are way too old for such melodramatic indulgences about imaginary worlds. This is only a demanding hobby for a linguist with no full time job. Nothing more.

But she still felt lonely and weary, when she went into her small bedroom around midnight.

Her bedroom was really tiny. There was just enough room for a large, low Japanese bed in front of the narrow window, a large wardrobe in a faintly Asian styling and an ancient Chinese dresser.

She crept into her too big bed, curling up between two cushions and two warm covers. She fell asleep at once, dreaming of white ships and grey havens, humming the Annie Lennox song even as she slept.

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A few streets away from her apartment the shadows of this gloomy, cold November night gathered in the arcs of one of Berlin's many pedestrian underpasses. The last S-Bahn train for the night rumbled noisily away into the darkness and the rain, and then silence fell.

At this time of the year, at this time of the night, the passage was deserted. Its flickering neon lights brought out the cracks in the tiles of the pavement and the overflowing trash bins into stark relief.

At the centre of the underpass there was for some bizarre reason an old wooden bench. As it was a pedestrian underpass, there was no bus stop to justify a bench there, and no tourist would ever sit down on a bench to look at the graffiti sprayed at the dirty walls of this passage. Nevertheless, the bench was there. Perhaps it had been forgotten from a time long gone, when the passage had still been a real road, with buses and carriages running through it, way back in the golden twenties. But no, that was not very likely. Berlin had been destroyed almost completely in the Second World War. No simple wooden bench could possibly have survived the apocalypse of the bombs.

However, the bench was there.

And it was occupied, too.

A slender young man was sitting on the bench. He was almost painfully thin. The mass of his black hair, twisted into untidy dreadlocks, made his face look even bonier and thinner.

His eyes were large and silvery grey. Their expression was weary and kind of sad.

They seemed to hold too many and too dark memories for a man, who appeared to be no more than twenty or twenty-five years of age.

But then again, maybe not. He was obviously a tramp, a homeless vagabond living it rough out in the streets. He wore black leather trousers soft and thin with age, a frayed black dress shirt and a black leather jacket, studded with silver buttons. His nose was pierced, and at one earlobe a small, silvery skull tangled. Any mother would say that this type was a piece of bad news and drag her teenaged daughter away – as quickly as possible.

He was not alone, either. At his feet a large black dog was stretched out, who looked much better fed than the young man. But it was a large dog, with feral features and a deep menacing growl, should any stranger dare to come too close.

On the bench the young man had put down a grey army backpack, which contained all his earthly possessions. Dangling from a chain was a bright red food bowl for the dog. The bowl and his guitar the man were the only things about him and the dog, which were not black or at least grey.

He was softly strumming that guitar now, apparently oblivious of the gloom and the cold of this November night.

He played well. He was not only ripping off a simple rock song with a barely maintained beat. He was an artist, a true musician.

The melody he was playing swelled and flowed in intricate phrases, sometimes sweet and soothing like Mozart, then again hot and melancholy like Flamenco.

Sometimes he inadvertently slipped into a song to go with his music, singing along softly in a strange, flowing language. The foreign words brought to mind far blue seas and golden woods. But whenever he grew aware of it, when ever he realized that he had started singing to the melodies he was playing, he stopped, a haunted expression on his face.

The night was long and dark and cold.

Unconsciously, the young man pushed a strand of his dirty black dreadlocks back behind his right ear, revealing a strangely pointed ear, which gave his face an alien, almost feral expression. The grey misery of morning was still far away. He still had several hours of peace and quiet to fill with his music, hoping to soothe his loneliness and longing, before he had to get going again, playing and begging to keep at least the stomach of his dog filled.

He kept on playing. Now and again, he sang along to his melodies, until he realized that he was singing and fell silent again.

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	3. Birth

**_3. Birth – Middle Earth, Esgaroth, the fourth age, the year 325_**

"Are you sure that everything is alright?" The tall, black haired elf tightened his hold on the hands of the young woman thrashing around on the bed. The mid-wife, a fair haired, dimpled woman of a rather stout figure smiled at the father-to-be. She had never encountered a man who was so nervous and caring. Most men of Esgaroth left the child-bearing to the women-folk, content with drinking to the child's and the mother's health – preferably all through the night. She did not know how the dwarves handled the bearing of children, but dwarves rarely spoke about such private matters in the public any way.

The contraction passed, and the young woman breathed more easily again. Jarro's hair was plastered wetly to her forehead. The pains had started early in the morning. Now it was already late in the evening. She clung tightly to Elrohir's hands, but she valiantly tried to smile at him. "No, I think, I'm o.k., really. Lori?" The mid-wife smiled again, reassuringly, and sponged Jarro's face. "You are doing just fine, lovey. But it's your first, and first children tend to take their time."

She turned to the nervous elf. She had been told that he would age and die just as his young mortal wife, but to her he would forever be an elf, one of the firstborn of the legends, and to be treated with special reverence. "Don't worry, Master Elrohir. Your wife is young and strong. In two days the pain will be forgotten." Elrohir looked worried, not quite believing her comforting words.

At that moment another violent contraction shook Jarro's body. She screamed, clutching wildly at Elrohir. _A kingdom for a PDA_, she thought gasping, trying to remember how to breathe through the pain.

"I am so sorry that I cannot help you, meleth-nîn," Elrohir whispered, thoroughly shaken by seeing his beloved in so much pain. "But I know nothing about healing or birthing. I used to be a warrior, not a healer."

"Well," Jarro gasped. "I don't know anything about it, either." _And I used to be a consultant, not a healer, so I don't know… _She moaned, her back arching involuntarily.

Lori could not help but grin. She liked Jarro, and she was more than a little in awe of the handsome elf who had become a teacher at the school of Esgaroth. "But I know about both healing and child-birth. And I promise, the only thing you have to worry about now is to decide on a name. Your son will need one shortly."

"Son?" Jarro and Elrohir asked at the same time, eyes wide and astonished.

Lori shrugged. "I have a feeling… he's too lively for a girl. I don't think you will have to endure this for much longer."

With an expert look she assessed the oncoming of the next contraction and swiftly placed her hands on Jarro's belly, feeling for the position of the baby. It had turned, and was moving.

"No," she smiled. "It won't be long now. You won't have to wait till morning."

Lori was sure of this. She had buried sufficient patients dead in childbed to know. And while the contractions were fierce, Jarro was tough and strong. She would manage just fine.

The hours passed. It was close to midnight and it was a beautiful summer's night. The sky above Esgaroth was shining brighter than ever with myriads of blazing stars. The milky way stretched as a pale golden way all through the skies of night. Showers of shooting stars flashed like fireworks in the darkness of the western sky.

In a large white house in the city of Esgaroth a woman screamed with the pain of giving birth. Suddenly the scream turned into low grunting, and then another scream echoed through the night, this one the bright, annoyed wailing of a new born child.

Lori had been right, as she always was with these things. There was a reason that she was considered the best healer and midwife in Esgaroth. Smiling, she held up the squealing, red faced baby boy and swiftly cleaned his mouth, nose and eyes. Then she laid him on his mother's chest.

Pressing down on Jarro's belly, the afterbirth slipped out easily, barely forcing a moan from the exhausted new mother. Expertly the midwife tied off and then cut the umbilical cord.

"There," she said softly to the baby. "Now you are born. On your own, for better or worse."

Elrohir and Jarro looked down at their first child, completely enraptured. "He's so small," Jarro whispered, tenderly stroking the child's dark fuzzy head.

"He has pointed ears!" Elrohir said, his voice full of wonder.

Jarro almost laughed at this, but the laugh turned into a low moan due to her strained abdominal muscles. Lori assisted her with deftly placed hands, soothing away the pain.

Jarro gasped softly, but she smiled at her husband in spite of it. "You're his father," she said. "What kind of ears did you think he'd have?"

Elrohir grinned at her answer, but there were tears in his eyes.

"You know," Lori said. "You can touch your son. He won't break." Strange, how an elf-lord of how old had Jarro said he was? Of more than three thousand years, was just as nervous and frightened as any young father she had ever seen.

"I may?" Elrohir reached out to his son, his hand trembling slightly. He had never imagined to experience this kind of grace in his life. Softly, ever so softly he touched the tiny ears of his son. They were so tiny, crumpled, pink, almost translucent… and indeed very pointed. Then the baby opened his eyes. And the eyes drew a sigh of awe even from such an experienced midwife as Lori. The eyes of the baby were large and unusually bright. And they were not the watery blue color of human babies' eyes, but of a clear, silvery grey color.

"Well, I think he has your nose and your chin, Jarro." Lori commented. "At least it will be obvious to the blindest beggar just who his father is."

Jarro snorted at this. Elrohir obviously did not understand this reference to the problem of men being now and again uncertain of their children's parentage.

"Are you going to tell me his name?" Lori asked, after she had cleaned up Jarro and made her comfortable in her bed again. Now, that his first infuriated screams had dissipated, the infant was quiet. He was looking thoughtfully, but completely awake at his surroundings.

Jarro looked up at Elrohir. She knew that it was the father who gave the first name to an elvish child. The mother's name was only given later, when the child's personality had manifested.

The elf looked thoughtful and somber. He had indeed given the matter careful thought.

Although his children would not be elvish children, he wanted to honor his family with their names. He also wanted to bestow the Valar's blessing with the name he chose.

It was a difficult decision. Of course, these were peaceful times, so he needn't really worry. But now and then during Jarro's pregnancy he had experienced a strange sense of foreboding, of far away shadows…

He wanted to give his son a strong name. A name that would guide his son, and protect him.

A name that would keep up the family's tradition of referring to the stars in the father's name. "Elen" means star in Sindarin. His father and his uncle, the descendants of his uncle, and even his brother and he himself, had always had names with at least the sound of the name referring to the elvish word for star. He wanted to keep it that way. He looked down at his wife and his son. A tender, protective smile of all-encompassing love flowed across his face.

"His name is Elentar, king of the stars. His birth makes me feel as if I was king of the stars!" Elrohir smiled happily. "And the blessings of the stars shall be with him wherever he goes."

"Elentar," Jarro repeated, trying out the name. "Elentar. Do you like your name, sweety?"

Little Elentar made a small snuffling noise. But he did not protest in any way.

"Perhaps you should try if he is hungry," Lori suggested.

Elentar was hungry.

But after a few minutes of drinking at his mother's breast, he fell asleep. Lori took him from his mother, clothed him in diapers and a small white frock, then put him in a beautifully carved cradle next to Jarro's bed. "He's tired, the little dearie," she said softly, smiling at Jarro. The young woman was tired, too. It had been a long day of much pain and effort to give birth to little Elentar. When Elrohir made no move to leave his wife alone, Lori shook her head. Not really disapprovingly, but she was a little amazed. This couple was really very different from the people of Esgaroth. But she rather liked that about them. Now she raised her eyebrows and tried to fix a stern expression on her face. "You know, Master Elrohir, most men in Esgaroth don't return to the rooms of their wives until six months after the birth!"

Elrohir started at that. His expression of happiness turned into one of dismay.

"You stay," Jarro whispered, taking his slender hand into hers. "She's only teasing. Aren't you, Lori?"

Lori grinned at the young couple unrepentantly. It was not often that nobility was so relaxed with child-birth and such. She felt at ease in their company, even though she was more than a little in awe of the elf. She also enjoyed watching a couple so obviously devoted to each other. Her own husband had died two years ago, and she still could not believe that he was gone. somehow it helped her to see that there was still such a love to be had in this world.

"Well, maybe I am. But what I said is true, Master Elrohir, Jarro. Staying in one room for the night should be limited to sleeping only for at least six months. Even if you are young and strong, Jarro, your womb is strained and bleeding for a time, and getting pregnant again right away would be dangerous."

Elrohir stared at Jarro and Lori, looking disturbed. "Is that possible? I thought…" He trailed off, once again confronted with a difference between the elvish and the human race.

Jarro frowned. For a woman her age, Lori mused, she knew very little about child-birth and such. "Yes, it is possible for a human woman to conceive again shortly after birth. It does not happen often and it is dangerous, but it does happen. So, please, behave yourselves."

But she smiled. For one thing, Jarro and Elrohir would be too tired to think of anything like sex for some time to come. For another, Elrohir loved his wife deeply. Lori could see that in the elf's eyes. The depth of feeling apparent in his light grey eyes always reminded her of her late husband…

The midwife kissed Jarro good-night, just as her mother would have done, had she been able to be here to welcome her grandchild. Then Lori checked quickly if the baby was alright.

Elentar was sleeping contentedly, sucking on his right thumb.

He looked like an angel. He was smaller than most human babies, which had eased the birth, but he was more beautiful, his movements had been unusually controlled and his eyes had been much clearer than she was used to from babies with pure human ancestry.

While Jarro had already fallen asleep, Elrohir had watched Lori intently as she examined the baby. The midwife looked up and smiled, having recognized the reasons behind this scrutiny. "He's fine, Master Elrohir," she whispered. "Your son is just fine!"

She smiled as she watched the tension draining slowly out of the tall and slender frame of the elf. The man slumped down on his side of the bed, but he did it so gracefully that he would not disturb his wife's sleep. He looked even more exhausted than his wife.

"Don't worry," she repeated in a low voice. "He's fine. She's fine. Everything is just fine!"

The elf nodded slowly, gratefully.

"Good night." Lori said in her most soothing voice. "Sleep well. Daddy."

His eyes flew open at that title, but then he smiled back at the midwife, the most glorious, in fact the happiest smile she had seen in quite some time.

"Thank you," he answered softly. "Sleep well yourself."

Lori nodded and left the room.

She closed the door softly behind her. For a moment she waited in front of the door, but when there was no call or any other sound, she walked down the corridor and out on the terrace of the house. It was a beautiful house, situated just at the waterfront, with sheltered garden, a small stable and enough rooms for ten children, should Jarro and Elrohir be so inclined.

It was really a beautiful summer's night, Lori thought. She deeply inhaled the soft, fragrant air. The air was slightly humid from the closeness of the water of the lake, but it held the taste of the many sweet flowers of summer blooming in the gardens of Esgaroth.

Slowly she relaxed. Even an easy birth as this one had been, was hard work for the midwife. And it was always harder, if she really liked the parents. Too often childbirth was not a happy occasion. Too often either the mother or the child did not survive.

But not this time. Nor indeed with the other children those two might be having in the future, she mused. Jarro and Elrohir were blessed in their love. Childbirth would never bring unhappiness to their home.

Then she tilted back her head and looked up into the dark sky. So many stars…

The elves believed that the stars were the lights of Varda, the Queen of Stars. The people of Esgaroth had their own myth of the stars, closely connected with the secret believes of the dwarves. As a child, Lori had been taught that the stars depicted other worlds, worlds on the other side of the void, placed there by Eru Himself and His Flame Imperishable.

Tonight the stars were magnificent. The milky way stretched clear and golden from horizon to horizon. Now and again a shooting star flashed through the darkness above her.

Omens, Lori thought. To be born on a night like this, the little boy, Elentar, had to be destined for great things. But he would not have it easy in his life, she mused. Especially if his personality was anything like those shooting stars which had portended his birth.

She smiled. She was looking forward to see the little half-elven grow up.

If she lived that long, she amended. Jarro and Elrohir had told her that they thought their children would be wholly human.

But now, having seen little Elentar, Lori was not so sure if the young parents were right about what their children could or could not be.

Whatever Elentar would grow to be, elf or man, Lori thought that she would win any bet on one account: his parents would not have it easy with him.

Elentar would be a right handful.

And Lori was never mistaken, when it came to her babies.

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**A/N: **As I don't have any children of my own yet, I had to write this on the basis of what friends told me about the birth of their children. I hope you like it nevertheless.


	4. Memories

**Mija: **I loved writing that chapter, it was so soothing after all those orcs in the 23. chapter of "Lothíriel".

* * *

**4. Memories**

A grey dawn finally penetrated the shadows of the passage. The tunnel, which had been gloomy before, now looked absolutely miserable. The young vagabond cast a look at his watch. The glass was cracked, but it still gave the time.

Seven o'clock. But it was Saturday. Saturday was a good day for singing in the trains, but not as early as seven o'clock. He sighed. He was cold and tired, but he knew that he would not find any deep, peaceful slumber. Not now, not here. The best thing he could do was doze with his eyes open and slightly glazed, seeking the strange paths of his dreams. It was easier to forget the cold and the loneliness when he was playing some music to his dreams, and so he kept on strumming his guitar, playing melodies of many countries and many centuries, some well known even today, some known to a handful of experts, and some of them completely unknown by anyone.

He would have to wait to nine o'clock, catching the people on their way into the city center, on their way to shopping and browsing through the galleries, on their way to spending a relaxed day with the entertainments offered by the capital city of Germany.

The time between nine and ten would be good work on the trains.

After that, he would have to go outside. In the summer that was quite profitable, too, singing and playing his way through the cafes and bistros. Now, in fall and on a rainy day, he would have to try and see if he could get away with making some music in one of the malls. But that was always a risky business. You needed permission by the proprietors, and more often than not he was thrown out within five minutes.

If he was thrown out, he had to try the stations. But most good spots in the stations were claimed by the various clans of homeless, beggars, street artists, vagabonds and petty thieves that roamed the streets of Berlin, and jealously guarded against any competitor.

He did not care for fighting over where to sing or where to beg.

Most of the time, when he did not find a good place where he could sing for his supper, he simply roamed the streets and the parks of the city until yet another long and wearisome day was finally over.

Early and late in the evening the trains would pay well again. Early in the evening because of the people returning to their homes after a day's shopping and fun, late in the evening because of the people going home from the theater or the opera. This crowd was the best audience. They were rich, and most of the time they were relaxed and in a good mood on their way home. He always took care to check what they had been seeing at the opera or at the theater, to keep his music in tune with the show they had enjoyed.

If the police did not catch him, he always did well late on Friday or Saturday evening.

Slowly the minutes passed. The weather grew worse. The drizzle deepening into heavy rain driven by a piercingly cold wind from the east.

His dog crept into the lee of the bench, hiding from the wind. The dog was getting old. The next winter would be hard on his companion. He knew that sooner or later he would all alone again.

Finally it was time to go.

* * *

He rose from his bench and crossed the passage. At the rear entrance, on the right hand side there was a small spot of greenery. Not a park, but a few trees and an impenetrable thicket of thorn bushes and holly. He slipped into this thicket of thorns. He had made a hollow at its center, where he could hide his things and leave his dog while he worked during the day.

That was all the home he had at the moment, apart from the bench in the underpass, which he had claimed as his. He slipped into his cold hollow of thorns, holly and winding creepers and put down his backpack for the day. He laid a dirty rug on the muddy ground, then left the hollow to refill the dog dish with water from a nearby fountain.

His dog had already curled up on the rug, shivering slightly from the cold and the rain.

He hunkered down next to the animal and stroked his wet fur. In a soft voice he told his dog to wait for him, he would be back with a nice meal for both of them. The dog only looked at him.

Then the young vagabond picked up his guitar and walked to the nearest train station.

The weather stayed horrible all through the day. It was grey and wet and cold. A thoroughly miserable day in November. Most people on the train were pretty miserable, too. And there were not many people out to do shopping in the big city. It had been better business some years ago, when the New Economy had still flourished. Now Germany was in the middle of a recession that bordered on depression. Many had lost their jobs, and those who still had jobs were overworked and frightened to lose their jobs. The introduction of the European currency had made the prices rocket, and now people were careful with every cent they spent. Parents thought twice about taking their kids to fun fairs, because a simple carousel ride was too expensive if you had three kids wanting to take a ride.

In a few years things would be better, he knew that. He had, after all, witnessed the ups and down of economy in human society many times before.

But for the time being, living in the streets was an even harsher life than it was in the best of times.

When the trains became empty towards noon he had only earned about two Euro. It was enough to buy bread, orange juice and a can of dog food. It was not enough for the tent he wanted to buy. He could, and had, survived many winters out of doors. But he did not like it. His dog did not like it. His dog was too old for another winter out of doors. He also did not like spending the winter in one of those charity homes. He could not stand being locked together with so many people, day and night.

He was a solitary creature. He was too old, too set in his ways to change that.

Therefore he had decided that he needed a tent.

But that was easier said and done. It was not easy to earn money in the streets. And already it was November.

* * *

Some time late in the afternoon he walked through the park to get to the line that paid best early in the evening. The grass of the lawns had already turned the dull grey-green color of winter. The bright golden and red leaves of October had been blown off the branches days ago. Heavy rains had turned their beautiful colors into an indefinable mess of brown and grey sludge.

With a little bit of bad luck it would stay that way until May next year. Cold, grey, wet. Dreary and miserable. Sometimes he thought that was what he missed most; at home the seasons had seemed longer to him, and clearer defined in their different ways, each beautiful in its own special way. Yes, every season had been beautiful when he was a child…

And the air…ahhh…

He forced his thoughts away from his memories.

If he gave any thought to the quality of air, he would start feeling choked. And then he could not sing. And he had to sing, to earn the money he needed to buy that tent. And perhaps enough money to take the train to the sea, where the air was at least a bit clearer, cleaner…

No. He would not think about clear, clean air.

The skin at the back of his head itched. Not lice. Surely not lice. Not again. But when he looked at his short finger nails, sure enough, there was the crushed body of a louse.

One of those days, he thought. A day, where you are better off just staying in bed. That is, if you are lucky enough to have a bed to stay in.

He could not cut his hair. He would have to spend days soaking his hair in vinegar to get rid of the lice again. He could only hope that he had not already spread them to his dog. Getting rid of lice living on him was miserable enough, but to get them out of the thick fur of his dog was beyond misery.

Perhaps it had been the first one. A lonely beast he had just saved from its fate of eternal loneliness…

A short time later he reached his destination, one of the big stations in the city center. He carefully arranged his dreadlocks around his head, slung his guitar over his shoulder and boarded one of the trains leaving the center of the city.

* * *

He played his guitar and sang a popular English song. A mournful, romantic song. An old tune to the ears of his audience. There were not many people in the car. A young girl watched him with misty eyes, obviously lost in some foolish dreams of love and desire. An old man smiled at him, his gaze looking far away into an unseen distance, probably reminded of the journeys of his youth. When he had finished the song, the old man approached him. That in itself was a rare occasion, but the old man smiled at him, gave him one Euro and thanked him. The young tramp bowed politely. He rarely was given more than twenty cent apiece. And he could not remember the last time someone had actually thanked him for a song.

Then the train passed the station where the young street-musician usually got off for his hide-away on the bench of that dreary underpass. Not yet ready to change trains, but finished with singing for the moment, he stepped close to the glass doors, looking through the rain covered glass at the station with its grey pavement and the people hurrying to the trains, their heads bent, their shoulders sagging.

Was he looking for something?

Or someone?

Perhaps he recalled the other evening, because he had been thinking back to other unusual listeners.

Perhaps the incident had never left his mind.

Whatever the reason, he suddenly remembered the woman he had seen in that very station some days ago.

* * *

It had been very late, he had been singing and playing in the trains for the crowd leaving Berlin's theaters and operas. It had been a good night, too. The Komische Oper had given Mozart's opera about the Serail. It was a thoroughly shocking interpretation of the piece; they had changed the setting to a whorehouse of modern times, complete with naked singers and undisguised violence. Berlin had been in an uproar. A real success! People were angry, people were disgusted, people were delighted, people were fascinated; no one was untouched by this latest production of that particular opera. He had played soothing music that night, light Italian aria of times long gone and forgotten, and many people had given him the odd twenty cent, or sometimes even fifty.

Perhaps that was the only reason he remembered that night.

She had not been to the opera.

She had been on her way home from the airport, clutching a small black suitcase.

He had thought her very beautiful, although she had looked very tired, sad and lonely. There had been a stillness to her that he saw only very seldom in anyone of this day and age.

A depth of knowledge that was unusual in one so young in his eyes.

But it had not been this unusual quality of her demeanor that made him remember her.

It had certainly not been her appearance, although he had appreciated her black and silver hair and her clear face, along with her slender, but well proportioned figure.

It had been very late in the evening, and he had been tired from a long day of begging and singing. Entertaining the rich audience leaving the theaters and the operas was always more strenuous than his other tours.

He had been thinking about calling it a night, because he had done really well, taking advantage of Mozart and that daring new production.

He had not watched what he was doing and had somehow fallen into the rhythm and melody of one of the first songs he had ever learned as a child.

He recalled clearly that he had even sung the words to go with the melody, which he never did, because using the language of his childhood made him sick with a desperate and impossible yearning for the home his childhood.

He had played the melody of a hymn to Elbereth, Goddess of the Stars.

And he had sung the Sindarin verses of that particular hymn.

The woman had already left the train, he recalled, but when she had heard him sing, she had turned around on her heels instantly.

Her eyes had been wide with amazement, and very bright, as she had looked straight at him for only a second, the blink of an eye.

Then the train had left the station, and he had not been able to see her anymore.

There had been something strange about her.

No, it was not only strange.

He knew that it was impossible.

But somehow, somehow he had had the impression that she had understood what he had been singing.

Somehow he had – for short moment - imagined that she had understood his Sindarin words, and stranger still, that she had known the song.

It was strange.

It was more than strange, he told himself.

It was simply impossible.

He knew that it was impossible.

He had probably imagined her, along with her intense gaze, her bright eyes.

He must have imagined her.

No one here could speak Sindarin.

No one here knew any hymns to Varda, Goddess of the Stars.

But even though he was almost sure that he had only imagined the black-haired woman, that he had only dreamed of her staring at him like that, even though he was almost convinced that she did not exist at all –

he looked for her as the train passed that particular station.

But she was not there.

* * *


	5. Childhood

**A/N:** Another rather dark chapter, I am afraid, but it can't be helped... I hope you like it nevertheless...

**5. Childhood, Middle Earth, Esgaroth, the fourth age, the year 330**

Jarro was sitting on a bench in the beautiful garden of their their large white house in Esgaroth, watching her five-yearss-old son playing with some of his friends.

It was a warm summer's day, and she tried to relax in the sunshine.

But her back hurt abominably and she still felt slightly sick. Three more months, she thought…. Three more months… an eternity… to drag this weight around.  
You wanted another child, now you are having another child, she scolded herself silently. Stop acting up, Jarro!  
Her best friend, the mid-wife Lori, who was usually watching the children had to be with a patient today so it was Jarro's turn to take care that the children did not get into any trouble.

But today the children were for once well-behaved.

Three human girls, two human boys and a dwarf boy were playing hide-and-seek between the bushes and shrubs of the lawn. Berat, the other human boy, was exactly the same age as her Elentar, but already more than a head taller than her son. Elentar seemed to grow much slower than his age-mates. He was smaller, and his figure was much daintier than the sturdy build of the other boy, he was even daintier than the three girls, and two of them were younger than Elentar. And although the little dwarf was of course shorter than the other children, Kilían was a good deal stouter and stronger than his friends.

On the other hand, Elentar moved with more grace than his friends, his muscle control and balance was excellent. Intellectually, he was ahead of his friends. His vocabulary was much wider, he could already read and write. He needed little instruction by his father or his mother in anything he was interested in. He soaked up knowledge like a sponge. But Tthere was no use in trying to teach him somehtingsomething he was not interested in. He was stubborn as a mule.

In the development of his social skills he lagged behind his age-mates; in many ways he behaved like a much younger child. He seemed to mature differently. But that was probably only her imagination…

No, Jarro thought, watching the children, watching how Elentar interacted with the other children. I have to face this issue. Elentar does not _seem_ to mature differently. Elentar is different. He is not like the other children his age.

She felt hot tears burning in her eyes. She felt the keen edge of desperation and failure.

She loved her son, more than anything in the world. She wanted him to be just the same as his friends. If anything, she wanted him to be better than his friends.

But he was not better. Elentar was somehow different.

Jarro had to admit that she had tried to ignore this fact for quite some time. Where she came from, being different was all too often labelledlabeled with being not normal, being handicapped or specially challenged in some way. Now she was farther away from the country of her birth than she had ever believed possible. But that did not really help. Her son was different. And even though in Esgaroth men and dwarves, two completely different races, lived together peacefully and contentedly, being different was an issue in Esgaroth, too. It was a not the same problem that it was in the world where Jarro came from. But there was no way around it. It had been noticed that Elentar was different. And it was talked about how he was different.

Jarro leaned back against the bench and rubbed her swollen, pregnant belly. She was so awfully tired. This pregnancy was so much harder than Elentar's had been. Although she had still at least three months to go, she was already heavier than she had been with her son. And the morning sickness did not get any better. She felt sick most of the day.

Lori was worried. Elrohir was worried. Hell, she was worried.

And she was not only worried about her pregnancy. She was so desperately worried about her son. He was different, he was not as mature as his age-mates. But what did that mean? Had she somehow made a mistake with him? What had she done wrong? What exactly was the matter with her son? She wanted to talk about this with her husband. But this once, she who talked about everything else with her lover and husband, this once she was too frightened, and felt somehow too ashamed to bring the subject up and talk about her fears. What, if there was something wrong with her, if it was her fault that Elentar was different? Could it mean that her new baby would be different, too?

Jarro watched as Elentar raced around the large walnut tree, trying to catch Lissy, Lori's little daughter. It was so unfair. Her son was smart. Her son was beautiful.

She smiled lovingly.

Elentar's skin was pure and white as a girl's. He had large, luminous silver-grey eyes, just like his father. His hair was a shade darker than his father's was, a true black, not the shade of twilight in the trees. But Elentar wore his hair cut very short, close to his skull, because he did not want to look like a girl. That his father still wore his hair long was another matter entirely. Elentar wanted short hair – and that was that. Elrohir had been a bit upset about his son's insistence, but in the end Elentar had had his way. Elentar managed to nearly always get his way…, and that was another thing Jarro worried about.

And there was no talking to Elentar when he had set his mind on something. He did not listen to anything he did not want to hear. He was sweet, he was polite – and he ignored her completely. Sometimes she had the feeling as if he inhabited a world of his own that was completely separate from hers. Elentar just did not react the way the other children reacted to instructions or reprimands. He was different.

He acted differently.  
He looked differently.  
He was different. There was no easy way out of it.  
Elentar was different and she had finally to come to terms with that fact.

She would also have to talk about this with Elrohir.  
Jarro sighed again.

Elentar yelled for his mother to watch how fast he could run.

Jarro smiled in spite of herself. Elentar was very fast, and he looked so sweet, in his serious pursuit of his play-mates.

Now that his hair was so very short, the delicate bones of his skull showed very clearly, and in a way, Elentar was even more beautiful than before. His appearance was way beyond cute, bordering on the angelic. His eyes seemed to be even larger with his hair so short. He only needed to blink at most people to get what he wanted instantly. However, his ears were much more prominent with this hair-docut, and at the moment they were blushing in a very red color in the excitement of the game.

Therefore the hair-cut had actually defeated Elentar's purpose, which had been to look more like the other boys. Indeed, he looked much more elf-like with his hair cropped that short than he had looked before, when his dark hairs had touched his shoulders. He looked Mmore fragile, more beautiful, almost ethereal…

Jarro wondered if Elrohir had looked like that with five years.

Suddenly Jarro heard the sound of soft foot steps and turned her head.

Still wearing his black teacher's robes, Elrohir had entered the garden after a long day of trying to explain the history of Arda to pig-headed boys of fifteen or sixteen who were deemed in need of further education by their parents.

His eyes lit up with joy as he saw hehis wifer, but the instant Elrohir noticed the pallourpallor of his wife's cher cheeks and the deep circles of fatigue under her eyes, the joy diminished, and the darkness of worry crept back into his eyes.

"Bereth-nîn," he said softly and held his hand out to her. She frowned at him. Then she grinned. He knew very well that she did not like to be called a queen. He sat down next to her, laying a gentle hand on her extended belly. "Melethril-nîn." He kissed her softly on her cool lips. "You look very tired, Jarro. Have you eaten anything at all?"

She shook her head and looked back at the playing children.

"No," she replied. "I felt too sick to eat."

"But you have to eat, my love. And you have to rest! Remember what Lori said! You have to be careful with this one!" As if in an answer, there was movement under his hand, movement jerking into different directions at the same time.

A thought suddenly occurred to him. Could it be… could it possibly be…

"I worry about Elentar," Jarro interrupted his thoughts.

Elrohir managed to suppress a sigh. After five years as a father he wondered how his own father had ever survived the childhood of him and his brother.

"What did he do this time?" He asked, not for the first time.

Jarro sighed in answer. "He did not really do anything, this time." She fell silent for a moment. Then she took a deep breath. She had to talk about it. She had to get it over with. "It's just… I don't think he has grown very much at all in the last year. Take a look at Berat, how tall he is growing already! And Elentar – his behaviourbehavior – he knows so much, much more than the other children. But he acts as if he was… not like Berat, you know. And Kilían is more mature than Berat and Elentar together."

Now it was Elrohir's turn to sigh. He knew that the life of the Eldar was leaving him. That had been his choice and he did not regret it for a second. During the last five years some strands of his dark hair had turned silver at his temples, and he knew there were tiny lines forming at the corners of his eyes and around his mouth. That was the way of the human world.

But his son… He sighed again. Elrohir did not know much about elvish children, or how they matured. In times of war and duress not many elvish children are born. Elves can voluntarily decide when to have children. Therefore Nnot many elves had ever been born in Middle Earth at all; the times in Middle Earth had always been dark and dangerous for the elves. . But Elrohir did remember the birth of his sister, and he did remember how she had been as a baby and as a small child. Looking at his son now, there was only one possible, if incredible conclusion he could draw.

"I know," Elrohir said finally. "He is different because he isI am different."

"Don't tell me that he is different because he is our child, and you are an elf, even though you are not immortal anymore," Jarro said arching her back against the pain of the commotion in her womb. "But theThe way he is different, there is more to it than that. I know it."

"No," Elrohir said, and his voice was very serious. He knew this would be a grievous shock for his beloved, and he almost could not bear the knowledge that it was his fault. He continued in his softest voice. "No, Jarro. You don't know. Elentar matures differently because he is different. Jarro, Elentar is an Elf. He has the life of the Eldar. The choice of the Half-Elven must have been renewed in him."

Jarro spun around, then groaned, clutching her womb.

Shock raced down Elrohir's back in icy waves. He grabbed Jarro's hands, holding her tightly. "Breathe slowly now, slowly. Don't get excited. Calm down. Please, Ccalm down. Everything's alright."  
He only wished that it were true.  
When he felt that she had relaxed somewhat, he loosened his tight grip on her hands. "Better?"

She looked at him, her eyes dark and wide with fear in a face that was drawn with worry and white as a sheet. She shook her head wordlessly, and withdrew her hands from his grasp. She folded and unfolded her hands on her stomach in a nervous rhythm. Only after a long moment of silence she slowed down her frantic movements. She gulped, visibly forcing herself to calm down. After a few minutes, she spoke again, but her voice was so low that he could barely understand what she was saying. "How is that possible? How, for God's sake is that possible? And what does it mean? How does that change the way he will grow up?"

Elrohir swallowed dryly, wishing there was an easy way to tell her about what he himself had realized only a short time ago, wishing he could have waited with that explanation until after the birth of their second child. But perhaps it was inevitable. People had noticed already that his son was different. Jarro, as the mother, must have noticed something strange about her son a long time ago; she must have been out of her mind with worry. He knew that and he regretted it deeply, especially as it was his fault, the fault of his blood. What was worse, he also knew that Elentar had noticed it, too. Young as the child was, both by human and by elvish standards, Elentar was a very smart child. He knew that he was different, and he resented that fact.

Elrohir reached for Jarro's hand again, and felt immeasurably relieved when she let him have it. "I have no idea how that is possible. You would have to ask the Valar."

She snorted. "Very likely, given their frequent visits to Middle Earth. But what does it mean?" Her voice was pleading, frightened.

He wished he could be more certain about what it would mean. "You know already a part of what it means. He will mature in a different way."

"How different?"

"Slower. He will mature much slower than a human child. You have noticed it already, haven't you? He does not grow the way his friends do, either in the height of his body or in the development of his personality." Elrohir explained.

Jarro gulped, and he could see tears glittering in her eyes. She stared at him. Her eyes were wide and anxious. "How slow?" She whispered.

How Hhe wished he could give her a certain answer! But he had to tell her the truth.. "I have no idea, Jarro. An Elf-child with no human blood will stop maturing noticeably with about three years of age. Elvish children grow and develop only very slowly after their third birthday."

"How slow?" She repeated.

"When a human comes of age at twenty-one, an elf will still be a child. To you an elvish child of that age would seem as a child of perhaps seven human years."

"How slow?" Jarro's voice was desperate. "Elrohir, when will Elentar grow up? When will he become an adult?"

Elrohir swallowed dryly. He wished he could say anything else but the truththere was an easier way to tell her what it could mean that their son was an elf. He wished that he did not have to tell her that they would perhaps never see their son grow up.

"An Elf reaches maturity normally around his or her fiftieth birthday. Sometimes later."

"How much later?" Jarro choked out, her voice hoarse and strangled.

"Sometimes twice that age. But –"

"But I will most likely be dead before he's grown! And so will you! We will die and leave him a child, helpless and alone! How can that be? How can your Valar be so cruel? I just can't believe it!" Jarro collapsed into his arms, crying. He stroked her head, trying to soothe her.

"I am so sorry, my love. I wish I could tell you just how sorry I am that my blood..." He paused for a moment. In his worst nightmares he had never imagined that his elvish heritage could bring such sorrow and such fear into their lives. Finally he continued. "But, Jarro, I don't think it will be quite as bad. He is only half-elven. And he grows much faster than for example my sister grew at the same age."

"Your sister?" Jarro mumbled, stifling her sobs. "Arwen? Do you remember how it was when she grew up?"

Elrohir trailed the tears on Jarro's face with his finger tips. and Then kissed her softly. "Yes, I remember very well how my sister grew up. Although I am beginning to feel the passage of time more like a human does, I think I can still safely say that Elentar is much faster in his development than an Elfling of pure elvish blood. Now, I can't say for sure when he will be fully grown, of course, but I do think that it will be way before his fiftieth birthday. Perhaps with thirty? I would not think very much after that. So please, don't worry. Elentar is in no way retardedI think, I believe that we will live to see him fully grown. And there is nothing wrong with him. He is only an Elf. He will be perfectly alright. I promise."

He felt that Jarro was finally calming down again. Her breathing deepened, and the almost painful grip on his hands loosened somewhat.

"But thirty years… that's still a very long time…" He could see that she calculated his age and her age in her mind. Finally she sighed, rallying, as she always did, turning to face her fears and cope with them. How much he loved her!

"Oh well, I only hope you are right," she said. "We should still be in a pretty good shape in thirty or thirty-five years. But fifty…" She shuddered. She was thirty-four years old. She could imagine to be sixty. But eighty-four – although they lived very well in Esgaroth, the standards of living and medicine fell far short of the ones of twenty-first century earth. It was not very likely that she would ever grow that old.

Then she remembered the new child she was carrying. "And what about this one? Will this one be an Elf, too?" She asked, and the fear was back in her eyes.

Elrohr could only shrug and hold her tight. "I have no idea, my love. I am so sorry."

She blinked her tears away and tried valiantly to smile at her husband and lover. "I don't know what the matter is with me… really… I should be happy… after all, that means Elentar can choose to be immortal… that he never has to die, like you and me…"

"Indeed," Elrohir said softly, feeling his stomach lurch. He shivered slightly. Although he did not regret his decision of choosing mortality for the love of his life, the exhilaration of the knowledge that he would not be bound to the circles of Arda for all eternity was little by little replaced by a vague fear of the shadow that was even now waiting at the end of his road.

Elentar, who had not realized anything of the talk and tears his parents had shared raced screaming joyfully after his best friend, Kilían, the little dwarf. Although Elentar's legs were longer, the dwarf had more stamina, giving them almost even levels of strength for the moment. It was a real challenge for the Elf-child.

This time he simply had to win, Elentar thought, and setting his eyes on the goal post, gave the whole strength of his small, lithe body to the race.

…and this time, the first time ever, he was the winner, the first to get to the goal post.

He turned around to alert his mother to the occasion. Delight swept through him, as he realized that his father had been watching his triumph, too. And both his parents looked very excited, his mother even seemed to be crying!

The small boy turned a beaming face towards his parents.

"Mama, Papa, did you see that? I won! I won! I am the fastest ever!"


	6. Sindarin

**A/N: **This is a work of fiction and the characters portrayed in this story are the product of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is coincidental. Real institutions that are mentioned are used absolutely fictitiously (e.g.: there is a Tolkien Society in Germany, but they don't have an office in Berlin and they don't employ any Tolkien scholars).

* * *

**6. Sindarin**

Mina sat at her desk in the small office of the German Tolkien Society and was busy writing replies to various fan mails. Although the third movie of "The Lord of the Rings" had been out for almost a year now, the Tolkien frenzy had been barely reduced in intensity.

She sighed. It was not that she was not grateful. She loved her job at the Tolkien Society, even though the pay was something of a joke. But she was growing tired of answering the same questions over and over again. The ever growing list of FAQs on the homepage not withstanding she was still flooded with questions every day.

She took a look at her watch and frowned. She would have to hurry with her work this evening, or stay in longer on the following day. It was Thursday, and tonight she had to hold her first class of her new course of Sindarin at the Institute for Adult Education. She was really looking forward to the class. She had taken special care to prepare the first lesson, preparing a leaf-let with exercises and a quiz that she thought was pretty funny. She wondered if there would be any students from the previous class she had held at the institute.

A knock on the door interrupted her musings. A thin old man with steel grey hair, a thin, arrogant nose and a bristly moustache entered the office. Mr. Karstens was a rich elderly gentleman and one of the chairmen of the German Tolkien Society. He was deeply involved in the academic study of Tolkien's writings. Now he positioned himself in front of her desk, standing absolutely straight-backed and looked down at her with a stern expression on his face.

"I really don't think you should take on this new job at that institute," Mr. Karstens said. Mr. Karstens was a purist in everything he did, and especially where Tolkien was concerned. He knew Tolkien's youngest son, Christopher Tolkien, the author of the "History of Middle Earth" very well and shared with him the dislike of any departure from Tolkien's original visions. Or Tolkien's original visions as perceived by him. He loathed the movies, the fans, fan art and fan fiction in general.

Mina suppressed a sigh. Who had told Mr. Karstens about her new job at the Institute for Adult Education "Bildung unter den Linden e.V."?

Mr. Karstens disliked that she had the nerve to actually teach Sindarin, Quenya and elvish runes in an evening class. He had actually tried to find a way to stop her from doing so legally. He had not been successful. It is legal to teach anything that is related to academic study, or there would not be any college courses like "How to read and understand XYZ". As a working knowledge of Sindarin, Quenya and elvish runes is useful for the study of Tolkien's writings, it is legal to teach those things and Mina took care to use only books and other resources in her classes that were legally published, not infringing on any copyright. Moreover, Mina had an express permission to teach Sindarin and Quenya (and the runes as well) issued by Tolkien Estate. She had approached a representative of Tolkien Estate on a conference with the issue of teaching the elvish languages. Subsequently she had been granted an audience with Christopher Tolkien. She had discovered that although Christopher Tolkien was very touchy about the way his father's work was treated, he was not in any way narrow-minded. He had told Mina that he thought it impossible to develop a "living language" from the rudiments of elvish grammar and vocabulary, but he wanted to encourage a proper academic study of them. Her résumé as an acclaimed linguist had convinced him that she would not mutilate his father's inventions, and so, in the end Christopher Tolkien had given her his blessing.

Mr. Karstens had had to accept grudgingly that she explained the basics of Sindarin, Quenya and elvish runes to Tolkien fans. Up until now she had done "Elvish for beginners" as an evening class for adult students. She had divided the lessons into two evenings of Sindarin, two evenings of Quenya and one evening about elvish runes. This class had been fun to teach, and apparently her students had enjoyed it, too. She had been asked to teach an additional course in Sindarin as a real language course by the head of the institute. Mina had been amazed and gratified. And of course she had agreed. Tonight she would hold her first class.

She looked at Mr. Karstens and forced herself to smile at him. "I am sorry that you feel that way. But I have to admit that I have taken up the offer. Tonight I will teach the first class. I understand that you want to ensure that Tolkien's work is treated respectfully. But I can promise you that this is the case. My students love and admire Tolkien. That's the reason why they want to learn Sindarin."

She knew better than to try and make Mr. Karstens understand how deeply creative some of her students were, engaging in role plays of "The Lord of the Rings" or "The Silmarillion", writing poems and stories in Sindarin and Quenya, or at least trying to do so, writing music with Sindarin lyrics, and most of all, wanting to be able to really talk in Sindarin.

Mr. Karstens narrowed his eyes. "But it's impossible to really learn Sindarin. There are only the barest rudiments of grammar and vocabulary. It is beautiful, but it is not a real language. It is a linguistic experiment. It should be studied and admired, not mutilated."

Mina knew that her smile looked more like a grimace by now. "I can promise you that I won't mutilate Sindarin in any way."

"But you do develop new words, don't you?" He asked querulously.

Mina sighed. "I explain the way Tolkien developed Sindarin words. I teach how words can be reconstructed."

"Do you make up new words or don't you?" He insisted.

Mina took a deep breath and forced herself to remain calm and composed. "If someone asks me what a German word might be in Sindarin that is not included in the traditional vocabulary but that can be constructed from existing word-stems by using accepted linguistic procedures, then I will indeed explain the procedure and give the word or phrase that can be developed that way."

"Then you do mutilate Tolkien." Mr. Karstens said accusingly.

"I am sorry that you think so, Mr. Karstens," Mina said politely. "But I do need that job and I can only promise you again that I don't do anything that cannot be supported by scientific arguments."

Mr. Karstens was rich. Mina knew that he did not know quite how to react to someone who really needed a third job to get by. She saw her chance to end this conversation and quickly acted on it.

She smiled sweetly at the old man. "If you will excuse me now, I have still a lot to do answering letters about the up-coming conference in Cologne. But I would be really glad if you came with me this or any other evening. Then you could see for yourself that I am not in fact mutilating Tolkien, but that I really try to do my best conveying the beauty Tolkien created and helping other people to appreciate this beauty."

The conference in Cologne was a festival for Tolkien-purists. Mr. Karstens would hold the opening speech and was already nervous about it, although it was still three months till then. It was not a lie, either. There were a large number of letters and e-mails asking about the conference she had to sort yet and reply to individually.

"Oh… well… if that is the case… I'd better not keep you any longer… And – eh – tonight – I'm afraid – I am otherwise – er – engaged. But – eh – perhaps some other time…" Mr. Karstens blushed, then he turned around and marched out of the office.

Mina decided that she was really glad Mr. Karstens was too busy with his many societies and studies to drop into the small office of the German Tolkien Society every day. If he did, she would have given up her beloved job a long time ago.

When he was gone, she sighed again, deeply, and put her face into her hands. She was so sick of this particular argument. She clearly remembered the Tolkien conference she had attended some weeks ago in America. There had been a whole day during the conference that had been spent with nothing but arguing about whether or not it was permissible to develop new words.

Purism. Mina rubbed at her forehead. It was not that she did not think that Tolkien's work should be treated with respect. She most certainly did think that his work should be treated respectfully. And as a linguist she did not like the proliferation of self-styled experts on the elvish languages that swept the internet since Peter Jackson's movies at all. But she failed to understand why it should be such a crime if linguists, trained professionals – for heaven's sake –, expanded on the Sindarin grammar and vocabulary invented by Tolkien. After all, each new creation would have to be backed up by a linguistic explanation and asterisked in any dictionary as a new word.

She also failed to understand how so many Tolkien fanatics could be so sure that they knew exactly what Tolkien's intentions and wishes had been, most of them people who had never known Tolkien at all.

She herself believed that Tolkien would have been fascinated with the "life" his languages had acquired. After all, he had spent most of his life developing the elvish languages, their words, their etymologies, down to inventing the small changes in spelling or sound-shifts that normally occur in languages over the course of centuries and millennia.

Tolkien might have started inventing the elvish languages for his private enjoyment as he wrote in one of his letters. But sometime he had obviously decided that he wanted to share his linguistic creativity. Or he would not have published "The Lord of the Rings", nor answered any letter asking about the elvish languages! Tolkien had been fascinated with the "life" of a language.

Therefore Mina simply could not believe that he would be opposed to the way his languages were coming alive today. Sure, he might be put off by some new words or changes in grammar or pronunciation. But if you take a look at modern languages and their changes, Mina thought, you see that all the time in real life: French or German people throwing fits because of English words "invading" their languages, or internet/TV "corrupting" grammar.

And there were precedents, after all. Esperanto, Klingon. Latin! No one would ever say that you might not learn Latin because there was no native Latin speaker around to teach you the correct pronunciation. There were people at work in the Vatican doing nothing but making up new Latin words for the technical innovations of this day and age. So why should it be impossible to develop Sindarin into a living language or at least into a reasonably well working language?

Why did some people act as if an endeavor to learn how to read, write or speak Sindarin was some kind of sacrilege?

Mina sighed again. Why was it that there always had to be people to come up with rules about everything? Rules, they thought other people ought to obey!

Although she personally did not read or write fan fiction, why should people not get creative that way? And why should they adhere to any 'rules' in their writing? What about the freedom of writing? After all, no one was forced to read any of those stories!

Why should no one try to learn and speak Sindarin?

Why?

It was such a beautiful language. It fitted so well into the myths of the elves Tolkien had created. And these myths were such wonderful stories, transporting so many ageless virtues.

Virtues, Mina thought, that were hard to come by in this harsh modern world. And all the more necessary.

Thinking about speaking Sindarin reminded her of the young tramp she had seen on the train a few weeks ago. She still was not sure if she had imagined it that he had sung a Sindarin song. Probably. How should he have learned Sindarin? He had never been in any of her classes. And there were only very few Tolkien scholars either in Europe or in the USA that did any real teaching of Sindarin and Quenya.

It was simply impossible.

And why was she still thinking about this young vagabond anyway?

She shook her head, annoyed with herself and the wild ways her thoughts were going today and resolutely turned back to her work.

* * *

It was dark and cold, when she was finally on her way back home that night.

But she was content, if not happy. It was ten o'clock in the evening. She had held her first class of her Sindarin course. It had gone very well. She had known most of the students. Seventeen students all in all. Ten women and seven men. A group of seven were role players who had attended her first course. Two girls were avid fan fiction writers. Three, a young man and two women, had surprised her: they were students of her university course and attended because they liked her Old English class. Will wonders never cease?

The others she did not know. But she would come to know them, working and learning with them for the next twelve weeks. Twelve weeks of fun reading, writing and speaking Sindarin. And getting paid for it as well.

Sometimes, life was good.

She had started the class with the well-known Sindarin hymn to Elbereth.

As she had read it to the students, she had realized that she used an unusual rhythm, a rhythm she did not really know. When she suddenly remembered that it was the very same rhythm she recalled from that tramp she had listened to weeks ago, she almost stopped reading.

If she automatically used the rhythm of his song to read that hymn, had it actually been Sindarin that he had spoken? Had she, after all, not imagined the incident?

No. That would be simply too weird.

After reading the hymn she had explained the basics of Sindarin. She would go into more detail only in the next lesson. This first night she wanted mainly to find out how much her students already knew. She had devised a funny quiz for that purpose and it had worked really well, too. Everyone had participated actively and there had been a good many laughs at failed attempts to pronounce something or coming up with the correct lenient.

Now she was really tired. Weary to her bones. She was glad that tomorrow she would only have to spend three hours at the office. Then the day was hers, to catch up on sleep and her dearest project, the translation of "The Lord of the Rings"..

Mina shuddered. It was another dreary, weary day in November. At the end of November, to be exact. But according to the weather-forecast there was little hope for the cold, grey, rainy weather to dissipate. A real winter with snow and ice was not in sight.

Mina drew her black coat closer around her. She was so cold. Perhaps because she was so very tired. She hurried on through the darkness. Because of some road works she could not take her usual, direct route home from the station but had to go through a pedestrian underpass, reaching the apartment building where she lived from the backside.

Her steps slowed down. It was so gloomy tonight. And there did not seem to be any other person around. Even most windows around were already dark and asleep.

She disliked underpasses. She had read too many stories in the newspapers about attacks on lonely women in such locations. But it was the shortest way. The alternative would have been to get off the train at the next station and walk back. A much longer way to go home after a very long day. She had decided to risk the underpass. After all, this was a fairly safe and quiet neighborhood. For Berlin, anyway.

She sighed and quickened her pace.

So she drew her coat closer around her and tugged her hands deeply into her pockets, clutching her pepper-spray into her hand.

Nothing would happen. She would be home in a blink. Nothing at all would happen to her.

She walked around the corner and into the underpass.

She stopped dead in her tracks.

On a worn wooden bench at the center of the underpass the young tramp with the silver-grey eyes and the tangled black dread-locks was sitting. A large black dog with a muzzle white with age was lying at his side. The young man was strumming his guitar in a melody Mina did not recognize. He was singing softly.

And this time there was no doubt in her mind at all.

He was singing in Sindarin.

She stood at the entrance of the underpass and stared at the tramp in amazement.

The young man stopped singing and raised his head.

He looked straight at her, his face expressionless.

His face was very pale, his hair tangled and dirty.

Although he was young, probably no older than twenty-five, the hard life out in the streets had left its mark in his eyes. They were weary and haunted.

"Suílad," Mina said (1).

The man stared at her with unbelieving eyes. Then he cleared his throat painfully.

"Suílad." He said in a soft, trembling voice.

* * *

(1) suìlad greetings

**A/N: **The argument Mina has with Mr. Karstens reflects some things I have come across researching Sindarin and the learning and teaching of Sindarin for this story, especially the issue of purism which I have wondered about for some time now.

Tolkien's languages and Tolkien's work in general seems to inspire purism of two kinds.

The first kind of purism disapproves of any creative activity involved with the languages or Tolkien's work; only purely academic endeavors are appreciated.

The second kind of purism is a little bit more relaxed with the creativity part, but for them, canon rules. Concerning the languages that means that the development of new words or any attempt to actually speak the language is rejected.

**I would be really interested what you think about purism and if Sindarin may or may not be developed into a working language. My e-mail address is on my profile-page.**

For those of you interested in learning Sindarin or Quenya, there are free courses available to download at

www . elvish . org / gwaith (take out the spaces).


	7. Youth

**_7. Youth, Middle Earth, Esgaroth, the fourth age, the year 345_**

"But I want to go to Aman now!" Elentar told his father and glared at him.

"No. When you are grown. In a few years, but not now." Elrohir told his son in a calm, but firm voice.

"But I need to go and see other elves! At least let me go to the Lands of Morning, to find my uncle!" Elentar objected.  
  
He was twenty years old, but he looked and behaved more like a fifteen years old. He was almost as tall as his father, and he had inherited his father's noble elvish looks. His hair was darker than his father's, though, it was true black, not the twilight color of Elrohir's long tresses. And Elentar wore his hair short, painfully short. Elentar always looked as if he had taken the pruning shears to his hair. That way his delicately chiselled features looked even more elvish, and his sharply pointed ears were noticed at the first glance. Although Elentar still had the slender, almost fragile look of a boy, his height and the set of his shoulders promised that with maturity he would grow to be more powerfully built than his father, probably because of the additional human blood flowing in his veins that he had inherited from his mother.

"I understand how you feel, Elentar, but you are too young to go to Aman or to Kalormë. I think I have told you this a thousand times already. You are still too young for such dangerous voyages. You have to wait for a few more years," Elrohir repeated, his voice still calm.

"And how shall we get there then? Grow wings?" Elentar was working himself up for yet another temper tantrum. He did not want to be calmed down like a child.

"When you are old enough, you will go to Aman," his father replied, still calm. "But only then. Until then you need to learn how to behave."

"And what do you know about that?" Elentar spat at his father. "You're not an elf, you're only human!"

Elrohir drew back as if he had been struck in the face. Elves never hit their children. Never. Even when they are not really elves any longer. For once Jarro almost hoped that Elrohir would forget himself and just hit Elentar. The boy was as good as asking for it. Jarro did not think that she could have kept her temper in Elrohir's place. But towards his mother Elentar was almost always well behaved. It was his father that was the target for all his anger and frustration at being different, at being an elf. Jarro could see how Elrohir clenched his teeth. He would remain composed. He would never hit his son, or even shout at him. She sighed. If she had watched this match of tempers once, she had watched it a hundred times. She could understand how difficult it was for Elentar to grow up as the only elf in Middle Earth. And in a way he was right. Elrohir was not an elf anymore. He was aging. His hair was streaked with silver. There were many fine lines around his eyes, and there were even some little deeper lines around his mouth. A good many of these lines were Elentar's doing, too.

But this year was especially difficult for the young elf. This year Elentar had to come to terms with the fact that his mortal sisters had reached him in age and maturity although they were five years younger than he was. Jarro was only glad that Emlin and Elanor were patient and good-natured girls. She did not think that she would have survived with another two examples of that fiery temper in the house. Sighing, Jarro turned back to her men.

"Go in your room and stay there until I feel better about you," Elrohir was saying, obviously forcing himself to keep calm at his son's impudence.

"Go into your room and stay there," Elentar hissed, narrowing his eyes. For a moment he looked like something wild and dangerous, an angry cat, perhaps, ready to strike. Elf. Not human. Not human at all. "And how long will it be this time? A week? A hundred years? Oh, I forgot, you won't live that long!"

Jarro stared at her son. She felt herself grow cold. She felt how her hands started shaking.

She saw how Elrohir turned pale. She watched as all Elrohir could do was close his eyes and turn away.

Elentar had finally noticed that he had gone too far this time. His eyes grew huge and frightened in his face, and suddenly silver tears were streaming down his face.

"Mama," he said, his voice shaking. "Mama, I did not want to..."

"I don't want to know what you wanted, Elentar," Jarro said, her voice almost breaking with grief. "Go to your room. For the evening. I will send Anna with some food. Now go."

She could not bear to look at her son now.

She waited until she heard his uncertain steps at the door and then in the floor and upon the stairs. A moment the sound of a door was slamming shut echoed through the house. Jarro winced. She was only glad that the girls were with their "aunt", actually her best friend, the midwife Lori, tonight.

* * *

Jarro released a shuddering breath. Much as she loved her son, this was one of the times in his live that she had really wanted to hit him. She wanted to hit him with all her strength until he realized how much he had hurt his father. She knew that it was wrong. She knew that it would not help. She would never do it. But how could Elentar hurt his parents that way? She knew that he did not really want to hurt anyone. Elentar was feeling enough pain and anguish of his own. But how long would it be before he learned to think before he lashed out when his feelings were hurt, or things did not go the was he wanted them to go? How long would it be before Elentar realized how much he had hurt his father with his words, how much he had hurt her. It was because of her that Elrohir would die.

She walked towards Elrohir and drew her husband into a tight embrace.

For a long time they remained standing in the warmth of their embrace, their faces hidden from each other, seeking comfort in each other's body, in their shared love.

"I'm so sorry," Jarro whispered. "He did not mean it that way. He did not really want to hurt you."

"Didn't he?" Elrohir answered, his voice bitter and full of pain. "I am not so sure. He is much more mature than I was at that age. I think that he knows, or at least that he could know exactly what he just said. My brother and I were wild boys, and we did not always obey our father, but we would have killed ourselves before saying something like that."

"But you were among your own people, and you always were together. You were never alone. He is alone. Even though you remember your childhood, your life as an elf, you are no longer an elf, and Elentar only sees the human part of you, the presence, and not the past. Elrohir, Elentar's only friend is Kilían, a dwarf! And now his sisters have reached his age and will probably overtake him in the next few years. He's frightened and lonely. And on top of that he is bored to bits." Jarro said softly.

Elrohir sighed and drew his wife into a deep kiss. "I know you are right," he finally said. "Don't think that I don't see it myself. I wish I could help him. But I can't. You are right. And he's right, too. I am not an elf any longer. In many ways I don't even think as an elf anymore. – Hey, don't cry, melleth-nîn. Sweet, what's the matter?"

"You will die and only because of me," Jarro sobbed. Why was it that every little bit of happiness always came with a price? Although she had sworn many years ago that she would never question the gift of her husband's love for her, on some days it was harder than on others. And lately she had noticed a few grey streaks in her own hair. Although her body was still slender and trim – mostly because they spent such a lot of time outdoors, hunting, riding, sailing, swimming and running – , the lines around her eyes, the silver streaks in her hair, told her in no uncertain terms that old age was coming for her, too.

Elrohir laughed softly and drew her even closer into his arms. He kissed her forehead, her temples, then he reached up and gently stroked back her unruly hair. "How could I not? You are my love, you are my life. We have been blessed. Don't cry. One day Elentar will grow up. He will grow into a wonderful elf. Just wait and see."

Jarro gave a shaky laugh at that, but at least she managed to stop crying.

Together they slumped down on the white couch in their living room. Jarro put her legs across Elrohir's lap and laid her head on his shoulder. Elrohir put his arms around her, holding her tightly. "I love you, Jarro. More than I can ever say."

"I love you, too, melethron-nîn. But what about our wayward son? How can we help him?"

Jarro sighed, relaxing slowly. This absolute harmony between her and her husband was what had really kept her going through the difficult years since Elentar had suddenly turned into a troubled teenager.

"How can we help him," Elrohir let out a sigh of his own. "He should go to Aman. I know that. You know that. Even he knows it. But you know that he has to go alone. I cannot reach the Blessed Realm anymore. My choice is made. That way is closed to me."

"He will have to go alone," Jarro said, feeling tears choke her. "All alone. Oh, ye Gods! What kind of blessing is that, to renew the choice of the half-elven in a child that is all alone, a world away from his people? What kind of blessing is that to make him leave his parents and his sisters and try and cross the ocean all alone, with no help at all?"

"I don't know, Jarro. I have really no idea. We can only hope that the Valar have a reason for allowing Elentar to choose between his mother's and his father's people. We can only hope and pray." Elrohir said quietly.

"Hope and pray," Jarro repeated and there was a hint of rebellion in her voice. "Is there really nothing we can do? And why didn't the Valar bless Emlin and Elanor, too? Don't they deserve the same choice? After all, they share his blood! Your blood, my blood. Elvish blood and human blood. Shouldn't they be allowed to live forever, too?"

"I don't know, Jarro. I really don't know. I think they should be allowed to choose, just as their brother may choose one day. But it was not my decision. It was the Gods' decision." Elrohir's voice was rough and shaking with emotion.

When Elentar had been five years old, his parents had been forced to accept that their son had the life of the eldar, that he, just as his grandfather and father before him was allowed to choose, whether to belong to the firstborn or the secondborn. This knowledge had been hard for both of his parents. And only a few years later they had to come to terms with the fact that their sweet little daughters had not been blessed with the life of the eldar, that their little girls were mortal. This had been even harder to accept for their parents, and especially their father. Emlin and Elanor were the sunshine of Elrohir's life. But they were mortal, like their mother had always been, and like their father was, since he had made his choice thirty years ago, when he had married Jarro.

"If it had been my decision, they would live forever, you know that, Jarro." Elrohir whispered. When Jarro looked at the face of her beloved, she saw silvery tears at the corners of his eyes. She kissed them away, tenderly, gently. "I know, Elrohir. I know."

For a long time, they remained sitting on that couch together, embracing and kissing, comforting and being comforted.

Finally Jarro yawned. "I think, it's time for bed now. I will tell Anna to send some supper up to Elentar, but I think I will just go to bed. I feel pretty mangled after that scene our youngster pulled off tonight. But, you know, we really have to do something with him, Elrohir."

Elrohir reluctantly let her out of his embrace. He was tired, too. He was beginning to feel the weight of his mortal years. And it pained him to see his only son so lonely and torn.

"I know, I know. Perhaps I could take him to Rivendell in the summer? There at least a hint of elvishness should still remain. Maybe that will help, give him some connection to his elvishness. Or we could even try to sail for Kalormë. We could try to find my brother and his people. I only hope Elentar doesn't do anything stupid until I have had the chance to explain to him about the ship and the starchest."

Jarro stared at Elrohir. Her heart sped up. Fear tightened an icy grip around her neck.

"You don't think he'd just run away, do you?" She asked, her voice shaking.

Elrohir shrugged, but his eyes were full of worry. "I hope he won't. I pray he won't. But I will tell him about the ship nevertheless. Even though he is too young. If he decides to try it on his own, without the ship and without the charts, he is doomed. With it, he would have at least a chance."

"He would never do that to us." Jarro said. "He would never simply run off. Wouldn't he?"

"No, I don't really think he will, Jarro. My father never did anything like that. My brother and I never did anything like that." Elrohir replied as soothingly as he could.

But Jarro was way too familiar with the history of her husband's family.

"But you grandfather, Eärendil. He did do something like that, didn't he?"

Elrohir nodded weakly.

* * *

Two weeks later, after another horrible fight with his parents, Elentar Peredhel run away from home. His father had not been able to talk to his son about the elvish ship hidden at Dol Amroth, or the chest with the charts that would show the way to Aman, the Blessed Realm.

Although the guard of Esgaroth searched high and low for the boy, and Elrohir himself, a ranger and hunter with the experience of more than three thousand years, spent more than a year in the wilderness trying to find any trace of his son at all, their efforts came to nothing.

Elentar had disappeared and could not be found.

* * *

His parents never saw their only son again.

* * *


	8. Dangerous Dinner

**8. Dangerous Dinner**

"Why do you speak that language?" Mina stared at the young vagabond.

"Why do you speak my language?" the young man retorted, his voice and attitude so naturally commanding, that Mina backed away, her cheeks flushing with heat, and replied before she could even think about it, "It's a bit of a hobby. Well, a little more than a hobby." Then she realized that she had been about to let herself be intimidated and bullied by a complete stranger, and a homeless hippie at that. She braced herself, straightening up and tightening her shoulders. "A simple question is no need to get impolite at me."

He remained completely unruffled. Raising a delicately slanted eyebrow at her, he replied calmly, "I wasn't trying to be polite." He kept on fingering his guitar, producing gentle arpeggios that Mina could have sworn were not some old rock song, but Mozart. She shook her head. She felt completely out of her depth. She pressed her lips together, not knowing what to say. The music miraculously smoothed away the tension between them. The old dog lifted up his head, his eyes clotted. She could see that he was too thin, and wondered if he was not only old, but sick.

"Look," she had been about to offer dinner to a complete stranger. Including dog dinner! Mina stopped, clenching her hands inside her coat pockets. What was she thinking? He had cocked his head to the side, watching her with an almost amused half-smile from under his mane of dark hair. She had the uncanny feeling that he knew exactly what she was thinking. And she still wanted to know more about how he spoke Sindarin. She exhaled, her breath forming a small cloud in the cold winter twilight. The dog wheezed a little, as if he was too weak to cough. "Look," Mina repeated, with renewed determination. "How about some dinner for you and the dog?"

The young man stopped playing and for the first time really looked at her. There was a faint glimmer in his clear grey eyes. As if she had surprised him. The skin tightened a little over his cheekbones. She knew that he did not want to accept this offer. But she also knew that he would accept it.

He narrowed his eyes at her. "Didn't your parents teach you that it's dangerous to chat up vagabonds on the streets?"

Now it was her turn to raise her eyebrows, though she did not with his innate grace. "How about your parents? Didn't they teach you to say 'thank you', if someone invited you for dinner?"

As soon as she had said this, she knew it had been wrong. His face turned into a mask, his eyes like glass, cold, and impenetrable. "They did. I'm sorry, but I have to get going. Another time." He jumped to his feet, picking up a bag, and his guitar. Stooping over his dog, he attached an old red lead to the dog's collar. He was already halfway out of the thicket, when he turned his head over his shoulder, "_Hennaid. Navaer."_

And then he was gone. The thorny bushes and low branches were completely still, as if no one had passed through the thicket at all. _At least, not a human being... _Mina shuddered. A ghost? That was a very lively ghost, and a very obnoxious and impudent one.

She turned around and battled her way back to the street, acquiring two scratches on arms and hands on her way. Not good ranger material, she mused, as she brushed off broken twigs and black old leaves from her coat. Instinctively she pressed her lips together once more. No sighing. And no talking to herself. She would have liked to give the dog a few hours in a warm room, and some good food. She refused to think about the gauntness of the young man and the haunted look in his eyes.

Only when she was almost back to her apartment, his last words came back to her. _"Hennaid. Navaer."_ She stopped dead in her tracks. _"Navaer"_ was "Farewell". But _"Hennaid"_? "I thought _'hannon le'_ is thank you!" she exclaimed, making a businessman in a blue suit who was walking a few paces in front of her turn around, at her call. Her mind computed possible Sindarin forms derived from the only original form for saying "Thank you" in Tolkien's languages, which was not Sindarin at all, but Quenya: _"Hantale"_. It had to be a colloquial form, she realized. Something like "Thanks."

"But how," she whispered to herself, feeling her heart speed up with tense excitement. "How can a run-down vagabond living in the streets of Berlin know _colloquial_ forms of Sindarin?"

**oooOooo**

Somehow the mysterious young man remained in Mina's thoughts, as the dreary weeks of December dragged by. When she came face to face with him outside a tube station in a snow storm on her way home from her Sindarin class, she was not at all surprised.

He recognized her, too. _"Suilad,"_ he said, and was about to move on, when his dog stopped, lowering his head in a prolonged coughing fit. The dog, which had seemed thin to Mina even on their first meeting (though still better nourished than his master), now positively looked emaciated. She thought the old animal was also trembling, with cold or fever she couldn't say. His owner seemed completely impervious to wind and weather, still wearing the same leather jacket and trousers he'd had on in November. The only difference was that snowflakes adorned his black dreadlocks like beautiful, ethereal diamonds.

Mina stepped in front of him. "Dinner," she said, ignoring the little voice in her head that screamed_ 'Are you completely out of your mind?'._ "Dinner. For you and the dog."

It was gratifying to observe how the young man was literally taken aback, taking a small step away from her, staring at her in obvious surprise. But it took him only a moment to reply with the same nonchalance she had found so out of place at their last meeting. "That's not a very cordial invitation, _brennil nîn_."

She gave a start at his easy use of Sindarin, and felt herself bristle at the amused grin on his lips at her reaction. She very much wanted to say "I'm not a lady," but that would have been rather childish. "You look cold and hungry. And your dog looks as if he could do with some warmth and Pedigree Pal." He actually did not look cold and hungry, although he should have. But there was no doubt about the dog, which had now settled into a miserable heap of damp fur as close to his master's legs as possible.

Mina realized that if she really wanted to do something for them – or rather the dog – she would have to take them home. That was a thought that made her throat constrict, and the voice of reason scream even louder in her mind.

Taking a vagabond and his dog home to her apartment, that was only asking for trouble. A slit throat, a stolen purse and ticks on the carpet. The dog chose that moment to look up at her. His eyes were sunk in, and they had that gentle, accepting, suffering look she recognized from very old and very sick animals of her childhood.

She pressed her lips together again, curling them inwards and biting down on them. She knew what she was going to do. _You can only die once_, she told the insistent, increasingly hysterical voice in her head. _I bet a slit throat is not the worst way to die._

"I'm going to make vegetable stir-fry tonight," she told the vagabond. "I hope you like that. And we'll have to stop at the Aldi to get some dog food."

The man just blinked at her.

She smiled, enjoying the fact that she had surprised him once more. Instinctively she held her hand out to him. "I'm Wilhelmina Elbenstern, by the way. You can call me Mina."

"I'm Elentar," he replied and took her hand. His handshake was firm, and his hand strangely warm in spite the icy weather blowing around them. Something in his eyes told her that he had given his real name – and that he had not intended to.

"Elentar...?" she asked, curious about his family name. Would that clue her in where he came from? But he shook his head.

"Just Elentar."

"Okay," she did not want to get into another argument with him, especially not in the middle of a snow storm. "Let's go, it's not far. We can go to the Aldi just around that corner."

Elentar nodded. He bent down to the dog and seemed to whisper something into the fuzzy black ears. The dogs tail thumped and a gleam returned to his rheumy old eyes.

"We are ready," the young street artist said.

They headed off down the street in silence, with the snowflakes dancing around them, and his name dancing around in Mina's mind. _"Elentar"_ was a Sindarin word.

It meant "king of the stars".

It was not a name from the movies.  
It was not a name from the books.  
Who would give their child such a name?  
Who would make up such a name to use instead of their given name?

**oooOooo**

When they reached her apartment, he surprised her by stopping and taking off his boots in front of the door, putting them neatly against the wall, side by side. His socks, black, were threadbare, but clean and had no holes. Noticing that she was looking at his feet he raised her eyebrows at her, but for once did not lash out.

"Do you have an old rag or something, so that I can clean Amadé's paws? His feet are all muddy and I expect your apartment to be very... _pristine_?"

Mina stared at him. The way he pronounced "pristine" bordered on an insult. But she refused to rise to the barb. "Just a moment."

She turned her key and entered the apartment, leaving the door wide open on the less than pristine, but rather comfortably lived-in interior. She hurried into the kitchen, taking one of the old towels she used for cleaning out of the cabinet. As she closed the door of cabinet, she wondered for a moment if her unusual dinner guests would still be there when she returned to the apartment door. Somehow this meeting and this impromptu dinner invitation didn't seem quite real to her.

But they were still there, the dog patiently, obediently on the door mat, wheezing and tired, his owner squatting down beside him, ruffling the dog's neck, for one fleeting moment an expression of unconcealed worry and sorrow plain on his face.

"Here..." she hesitated, then added, "Elentar, will that do?"

He looked up at her, the moment of openness disappeared. But his lips quivered with that haughty amusement that appeared to be his trademark. "You don't pronounce that correctly. The emphasis is on the last syllable, an open, long and soft 'a' sound. You have watched those movies too often. The English accent does nothing for the pronunciation of that language."

He took the rag and began to clean the paws of his dog carefully, while Mina stood there, gaping at him. Her heart was thumping as if she had just run a up the stairs, or if she was face to face with the man of her dreams. He had acknowledged that his name was Sindarin. He had admitted that he knew Sindarin. She swallowed hard.

_And he had criticized her accent._

The dogs feet as clean as they were likely going to get, Elentar straightened up. "Go ahead, Amadé," he told the dog, who still hesitated on the doorstep. The dog slowly walked into the apartment, tail low and uncertain. The hard claws clicked an irregular rhythm on the wooden floor, as if he was asking himself or maybe his master, "What are we getting into with this?"

Elentar followed and closed the door behind him.

For a moment they stood in the narrow hallway, a run-down vagabond in a black leather jacket and faded socks, a thirty-something scholar approaching a mid-life crisis and an old, sick dog. Mina curled her lips. In a movie this scene would have been brilliant. She wasn't sure if the same was true for her life. "Here's the wardrobe," she finally said. "You can put your coat up there."

She quickly slipped out of her own coat, neatly hanging it on the customary hook, along with her woollen cap and scarf. She was uncomfortably aware that the young man was looking appreciatively at her long skirt and tight blouse. He widened his eyes at her as if he was about to shout "Booo!" just to see if he could make her jump, but then he simply turned to the wardrobe, pulled off his jacket and hung it quite orderly up next to Mina's.

She was astonished to see that beneath his jacket he was wearing only a denim shirt that had probably once been dark blue, but had by now faded to an almost off-white colour. Again, it was curiously clean and well-kept for a man who lived out in the streets. He had to be completely impervious to weather and cold, she mused, and – now it was her turn to appreciate _his_ figure – he was rail thin. He was also very tall, but not at all gangly, which made her guess about what kind of muscles were hidden under that shirt and those worn leather trousers. She could not quite contain an apprehensive glance at the closed door of her apartment.

The little hallway all of a sudden seemed very narrow.

"Have you changed your mind, _brennil nîn_?" The man's voice was unexpectedly soft. _He doesn't want to scare me, _Mina realized with a start.

"No," she replied resolutely. "Why should I? Come in, the living room is over there, bathroom there, kitchen there." She pointed quickly at the relevant doors, grateful that she had for once closed both her bedroom door and the bathroom door before leaving the apartment. "Why don't you go and sit down in the living room? Your dog... Amadé? He'll want some water. I'll just go and get out a bowl." Then she hesitated, blushing. _How awkward!_ She should have asked what her human guest wanted first! "What would you like to drink? Orange juice, water, tea..." she trailed off. She really should socialize more. "I'm sorry but I have no beer. But I can offer you a glass of Chardonnay," she concluded, rather too primly.

There was an unmistakably amused sparkle in the young man's eyes. She already expected one of his sarcastic retorts, but he simply nodded. "Tea would be good, _hennaid_. And not quite cold water for Amadé, please."

"Okay," Mina attempted a smile and turned to the kitchen, determined not to watch how he made himself at home in her living room. She might not socialize much, but _she_ had been brought up to be polite. Only when the water was almost boiling, she realized that she had forgotten to ask her guest what kind of tea he wanted. She picked up the bowl with cool, but not cold water and went over to the living room. The dog was stretched out on the rug in the middle of the room. His master was wandering along the walls, taking in books and prints. Mina had the uncomfortable feeling that nothing escaped his scrutiny, not a mote of dust, not one title of a book or failed attempt at _tengwar_ calligraphy.

This time she had to bite down on her lower lip to keep her nerves in check. She carefully walked around the dog, then squatted down, placing the pink salad bowl with water in front of the animal. "Here you go, sweety." The tail thumped, but Mina did not dare to touch the big beast yet.

Feeling Elentar's eyes on her back, she quickly rose to her feet again. "I forgot to ask what kind of tea you want."

"I don't know. What choices do I have?" He was not looking at her, but studying the framed calligraphies at the wall behind her. _Why did she feel as if he was mentally criticizing their execution? _"Err... regular black tea, of course. Green, white. Vanilla. Chai. Rooibush." She frowned at him, involuntarily following his gaze to the pictures. "I like tea. What's wrong with those pictures?"

His head whipped around, the quickness of his movement making her take a step back and her heartbeat race. He did not like that reaction, she could see that in the slight tightening of skin over his cheekbones and around his eyes. "Vanilla tea, then, please." His voice was unnaturally smooth, betraying no emotion at all. "Technically they are very good," he said abruptly. "But they lack the love of language that should be inherent to all ornamental depictions of Tengwar."

He turned away from the wall, pointing towards her desk with his chin. Another half-finished attempt of her own work, almost discarded in frustration at her inability to catch the elegant swirls she was seeing in her mind was in painful plain sight in the middle of the desk. "Yours is much better. You just need more practice."

Suddenly he stepped right in front of her. "Just a little more practice. And you need to stop doubting yourself so much."

She blinked at him, her breath catching with anxiety and nerves at having a stranger so close to her. Some part of her mind registered with surprise that he did not smell unpleasant, as she would have expected a homeless person to smell, of too few occasions of washing body and clothes... his body was fragrant, yes, but in a subtle, spicy way. Not a perfume, or aftershave – and how should he afford that, with not even a roof over his head? It had to be his natural body odour. She swallowed hard, looking into those silver-grey eyes and frantically searching for a suitable and polite reply, when he suddenly stepped back.

Once more, a black eyebrow was raised at her in mockery, and his voice was cool, as he went on. "Vanilla tea, _iësten_."

"Very well," was all Mina could think of to say.

She returned to the kitchen to get the tea ready. Dinner promised to be interesting, at least.

**oooOooo**

**Please have a look at my FFNet forum for my "Author's Notes"!**


	9. Growing Up

_9. Growing Up, Middle-earth, Pelargir, 397_

"Get _going_, damn you!"

The young sailor ducked under the whip of the boatswain's cane, steadying his load. But the boatswain just smiled and adjusted his aim. He knew the seaman would never drop his load or falter. The "Aredhel" was almost ready to leave port. Only a small stack of crates and chests were left to stow, valuable _athelas, pot-pourri_ of roses of Imloth, crystals of Aglorond, valuable, breakable goods that had to be stowed where no salt-water or rat could reach them. Not that a rat would ever touch _athelas..._

"And do something about your damn hair, you _rat_!"

"Aye, aye, sir." The young sailor drew up his shoulders and hurried up the plank on board the ship. Where the cane had hit his calves, blood seeped through his trousers, yet he moved as if he did not feel anything at all. But the boatswain had been right about the young sailor's hair. It was a tangled mess that covered his ears completely and touched the frayed collar of his dark blue sailor's shirt.

Under the scrutiny of a bored midshipman, the sailor carefully stowed the valuable goods in the special storeroom. He made sure that everything was tucked in securely and that the ropes holding the chests were tight. Then he stepped back, giving the midshipman a bow, a jerky nod, rather, but polite enough as far as sailing etiquette went. The midshipman, who was a rather friendly young man, son of a rich merchant out of Edhellond, only raised an eyebrow at the sailor and then stepped to the hold to control the sailor's work.

"Well enough," he said finally. His gaze dropped to the man's legs. The backside of his pants was soaked with blood. "Ye'd better go see the quack. I'll have a word with Corch." He hesitated, it was obvious that he wanted to say more but knew that, in his position, he should never, ever criticize the petty officers in front of an able seaman. In the end, he only added curtly, "But ye'd better do something about your hair."

Elentar bobbed his head, mumbling another "Aye, aye, sir" and ducked out of the storeroom, just in time before the next seaman arrived with more crates and barrels. Pipe weed, from as far away as the Shire. He could smell the distinct flavour even from within the barrels, above the salty tang of rotting seaweed and tar, and the ubiquitous scent of unwashed bodies. He hurried below deck, where the quack would be found, if he was not still in one of the taverns, drinking and whoring, before the "Aredhel" finally put off to sea. He would not actually go to what passed for a healer on board the ship, but he'd better be where he was expected to be... or he would be in more trouble than he was in already. It was best to stay out of sight. And silent.

He had learned that during the years since he had left his father's house in a fit of youthful anger. He had learned it the hard way. That, and many other things besides. Below deck, he found a shadowy corner where he could sit down and rest a moment, until the sting of the beating had faded. The boatswain knew too well what kind of beating he could take and walk away. Elentar leaned with his back against the cool wood of the ship's rump and closed his eyes for a moment. He did not like the stench of the harbour, or the way the ship's movement were constrained as she lay moored to the quay.

When they were at sea, Elentar was sometimes almost happy.

When he could hear the songs of the deep, the faint echo of the magic that kept this world alive, the lingering blessing of Eru...

When the stars shone brightly and mirrored in the dark waters of the Sundering Seas, he could almost believe that somewhere out there, somewhere far beyond the western horizon was another shore, white shores and high mountains, and people like him...

And maybe even those who had cursed him with this lonely existence, forever a stranger in a world of men...

He curled his fingers into fists, his nails biting into the softer flesh of his palms, below calluses earned in many months of rigging sails and working the ship.

He did not want to think of his family now.

He did not want to think of the fact that once there had been a place he had belonged to, a white, beautiful house in Esgaroth. He did not want to remember that once he had had a family, with father, mother and sisters, friendly eyes and smiles and love.

He could not wait to be out at sea again. It would be a dangerous run, this time of the year. It was still winter here in Gondor, and the season of storms that made sailing south of Umbar impossible during winter, was not over for a few weeks yet. But the "Aredhel" was a big merchant vessel, and her owner, the richest merchant in all of Pelargir, knew very well, that if his vessel made it to the big ports south of Umbar, maybe even to the far harbour of Dheing at the coast of Khand, he'd make the biggest profits yet. At this time of the year, no other vessel dared to make this route. If they made it, they would have virtually no competition, they would be able to ask almost any price they wanted for the goods they carried.

Elentar huddled into an ever smaller heap in the shadows, his breathing shallow. He had a bad feeling about this trip. This winter the storms had been bad even this far north. No hurricanes, of course, but bad enough. For some reason he was almost sure that the idea that the season for storms was over for this year would not turn out to be true.

And yet, he could not wait to get away. His longing for the sea was a constant ache in his heart. Although by rights he should have felt even worse at sea. At sea, he was as close to Aman as he would probably ever be – and still so far away from this mythical land and its people. He knew by now that he would never reach those white shores. He knew that, and still he signed on for ship after ship, just to be out on the sea. _Just to be a little closer to that elusive western horizon..._

_What a fool he had been!_

Running away from Esgaroth, he had planned to simply "get" a ship and sail off to people who were like him, people who would understand him, people who would welcome him as the long lost...

_What a fool he had been!_

"Get" a ship and set sail! With the sailing experience of a child on a lake!

"Get" a ship – steal away the livelihood of a small fisher, only to certainly sink the ship and find out how easily elves did die...

It was, he had to admit in retrospect, a miracle that he had even made it to the coast.

But he had made it. _Eventually._ And eventually the beggar had become a sailor.

A sailor's life suited him. Many of the ordinary sailors and simple seamen were nothing but vagabonds with very good reasons not to stay in port for long. He fitted right in with that motley crowd of petty criminals and conmen. At least he was not the only one with no home to return to.

A noise shook him out of his musings.

Heavy feet stamped up the gangway and onto the planks of the deck. Rough voices called out bawdy jokes. The seamen and officers were returning on board. The "Aredhel" would sail with the first light.

His keen ears picked up the whispered endearments that wives kissed their men goodbye with on the quay. There were sailors who had wives and – or – a lady love. Sometimes, indeed, in more than one port.

Elentar envied them.

When they put into port and he saw the women waiting on the quays, sometimes with little children dressed to the nines in what finery they had, the dull ache in his heart intensified to agony.

Could he have returned to his family?

The years slipped by so quickly for him. He hardly felt the passage of ten years. He had learned to change ships and stay away from the sea after a period of twenty years, so his unchanging features would not arouse suspicion.

Could he have returned?

Up to a certain point in time, he probably could have. But that point of no return had come and gone, and Elentar had never noticed until it was too late.

It was too late now.

His parents, both mortal, would be dead by now. His sisters grown, with families of their own. He was not sure if he would even be able to recognize them. They would probably recognize him – for although he had changed since the day he had left his father's house in Esgaroth, he had only matured.

He had not aged.

**oooOooo**

The darkening sky, the low, racing clouds and the rolling waves, cresting into bursts of foam told Elentar that he had been right.

The season of the vicious, southern storms that made voyages to Umbar and beyond so dangerous in early spring was not over this year.

A storm was rapidly approaching, and it promised to be a bad one.

They were far away from the coast, alone on the high seas, veering in a southeasterly course towards Umbar. But the winds were changing, wreaking havoc with the sails and netting, blowing them off course, and steadily westwards.

Already they were farther west than Elentar had ever been before, and the storm was not yet upon them.

At other times, Elentar would have been delighted and thrilled to find himself so far to the West. Perhaps there was still a corner of his heart that still hoped against hope to find the Straight Way one day.

But not today, not with this storm blowing up around them.

Not while the captain had gone below to take a last glance at the oil painting of his wife and daughter he had in his cabin. Not while the helmsman was whispering prayers asking Uinen, the Lady of the Seas, to restrain her husband, Ossë, the Lord of the Storms.

_Ai, _there was a wildness to this storm that filled Elentar's heart with evil foreboding. In his time at sea he had weathered many bad storms, but somehow he knew that this storm would be beyond anything he had ever witnessed before.

So he did not call upon Uinen and Ossë, who were but servants to the true lord of the seas of Arda. Elentar was saying Ulmo's name in his mind. His father had taught him that this Vala had never abandoned Middle-earth and those who dwelt there, be they elves or men.

Elentar believed that he had heard Ulmo's voice before, like the echo of a voice in the water, deep and wild and almost lost in the rushing of the waves. Elentar glanced at the horizon that was ever darkening. A strong gust of wind whipped back his hair, and he hoped that no one had time to take a look at the suddenly revealed ear.

The helmsman kept muttering, Uinen, Uinen..., and his hands were cramped on the wheel, the knuckles showing up whitely through the deep tan of the sailor's skin.

An officer called out a command to the crew. The sails had to go down, and storm sails had to be rigged, their only chance was to go with the storm now. Another point of no return had come and gone without Elentar noticing it.

As he jumped to follow the orders, pulling and heaving rhythmically with his fellow seamen, he wished that he dared to speak Ulmo's name aloud. They would need the Vala's help before the night was over.

The ship rolled heavily, the waves crashing high against the sides of the ship, flinging up enough foam to drench Elentar's hair. But the elf kept silent. While every sailor called upon Ossë and Uinen, Ulmo's name was seldom heard in this day and age. People who called upon the Valar with reference were looked upon askance.

Elentar ducked under a beam and grabbed a line just in time to prevent men and sail to be knocked overboard.

Lightning flashed overhead.

The storm was there.

**oooOooo**

The mast came down. Pieces of burning rope and sail cascaded onto the deck as it fell. It must have been noisy, with the crash of breaking spars and the ripping of sails and strong tows, but between the thunder and the roar of the sea, Elentar could not hear any sound. It was a silent, dreadful spectacle -

and he only managed to jump out of the way at the very last second as a strong beam suddenly, out of nowhere, veered towards him, crashing the railing like toothpicks and knocking five seaman and a midshipman who had not been as quick on their feet as Elentar into the sea.

The mast, broken, but not free of the vessel, keeled over starboard, dragging the ship athwart.

"Get rid of the mast! Get rid of the mast! Cut off the rigging! Get out the axes!" The desperate shout of the officer was almost lost in the storm.

Together with twenty other sailors, Elentar violently attacked the mess of ropes and tows that still attached the mast to the "Aredhel", dragging her closer and closer to the huge, roiling waves, closer and closer to drowning.

If they could not sever the mast soon, the ship would capsize.

As Elentar brought down his axe again and again on the splintered wood of the huge beam that had once been the proud mast of the "Aredhel", he suddenly realized that it was to no avail.

They would not make it.

It was a strangely quiet thought, clear as glass, almost as if it was not his own thought, but a thought that someone else had placed into his mind.

Sadness swept through him, for all the men he had worked and toiled with on this ship – for – _for_ – slightly stunned, he realized that he had been on the "Aredhel" for fifteen years now. They would die. They were far beyond the reach of any other vessel and this far west there were no islands where a shipwrecked person could be swept ashore.

Then another thought struck him, and so unexpectedly, that amid the turmoil of the storm, he lowered his axe for a moment.

Not only they would die.

He would die with them.

He was an elf – therefore he never was sick, would never grow old. But he could be killed. He knew that. He could be slain in battle, and he could drown.

He _would_ drown.

He raised his axe again, using all his strength to separate the mast from the ship.

**oooOooo**

The waters of the stormy sea were icy cold, and he was immediately sucked underwater, the heavy fabric of his simple clothing weighing him down mercilessly.

Around him he could see the helplessly flailing forms of drowning seamen and officers, and much too close above him he could see the dark shadow of the "Aredhel", keeling over, filling with water, breaking apart...

Soon the foundering vessel would create a maelstrom of death he would never be able to escape.

Wildly striking out, he cast off his shoes, and then began to fumble frantically at his trousers, never realizing that he was able to hold his breath comfortably and survive in these icy waters far, far longer than any human being would be able to.

Finally naked, he struck out to reach the surface, instinctively trying to get away from the sinking ship as quickly as possible.

As he shot out of the water desperately trying to avoid pieces of wreckage, beams and planks were being tossed about by the waves like small toys. Only a few feet away from him, he glimpsed another face above the water, arms reaching, heard a faint scream for help, then a piece of the mast hit the face and it was gone.

A wave crashed over Elentar and he found himself under water again. This time the currents seemed much stronger, even if the shock of the cold water around his head was not as bad as the first time. He felt that he was closer to the wreck instead of farther away.

And it was sinking!

He had to get away from here, or soon he would be caught in an inescapable mess of sail, rigging, netting, planks and beams.

With something like a shock he realized that he did not want to find out if his _fëa _would be called to Mandos after his death, or if he would, even in death, be caught somewhere in between, not quite elf, not quite human...

The current pulled at him ever stronger, for every move away from the ship and towards the surface of the ocean he seemed to be pulled down at least one foot again. As he felt himself drawn deeper and deeper under water, it seemed to him that the water was filled with voices, with a male voice and a female voice.

The male voice was deep, and angry, cracking with thunder and the crashing turmoil of the ocean, while the female voice was much gentler, like the rushing of the wind on the waves, and the foam dancing on soft seas.

Once more he attempted to reach the surface, but he felt that his movements were getting weak, sluggish, the cold of the water slowly reaching even his muscles. And although he possessed a strength and endurance far beyond the level of an ordinary human being, gradually the icy cold of the water penetrated his body, paralysing him.

He looked up and saw that he had to be at least ten fathoms below the surface of the stormy sea.

Panic flooded him, as he realized that he would not make it to the surface before he needed to breathe. He struck out blindly, trying to get upwards, upwards, with panic giving him strength, but at the same time pressing in on him, taking away his reasoning...

When he had no air left, he could not think clearly anymore.

Still at least a fathom underwater, he opened his mouth to scream for help.

Gargling the name he had called upon in his mind since the onset of the storm, he lost consciousness.

"Ulmo, help me! Ulmo!"

**oooOooo**

**A/N: **a fathom equals six feet


	10. Hair of the Dog

**10. Hair of the Dog**

Mina put down the vacuum cleaner and eyed the carpet critically. A dark spot caught her eye and she got down on her knees. It was a hair.

She picked it up and held it up against the light. It was short and coarse, a dog's hair. She frowned at the hair as her thoughts went back to the dinner she had shared with the homeless young man who called himself Elentar.

Elentar, _"king of the stars" _– what a name to pick if you are living out in the streets!

The dinner had been… strange to say the least. The dog, at least, had been perfectly happy, in a warm apartment, on a soft rug, filled with good dog food: he'd slept soundly through the evening, now and then growling in his sleep, twitching his paws in a doggish dream. Perfectly happy, perfectly at ease. The same could not be said about the human side of the dinner. She had been intensely curious. How did he come to know so much about Sindarin? Where had he learned to speak it like that? Why did he live the way he did?

But that was of course not quite the kind of question you could ask during dinner with a stranger. And apart from his comment on her efforts at calligraphy, Elentar had not wanted to talk about Sindarin or anything else concerning "The Lord of the Rings". He had dodged and evaded smoothlyany questions or attempts to talk about her favourite topics. Now and then he had raised an eyebrow and given her an amused smile, almost as if he was thinking, _"You'll have to do better than that to get me talking about something I don't want to talk about"_.

In the end, they had mainly talked about music. Elentar loved music. For a street musician that was probably not surprising. But Mina had been astonished to find out that he was very knowledgeable about classical music. They had talked about various composers they enjoyed, and Mina was touched to meet a man who admitted to a passion for Mozart. Berlin, like any big city, offered a plethora of theatres, with operas, concerts and musicals every day of the week throughout the year. Many of Mina's acquaintances professed a love for classical music, but most of the men preferred composers that she had a hard time of opening her heart to: Richard Wagner, Alban Berg, Shostakovich.

It was not very sophisticated to enjoy Mozart or Smetana. Mina grinned wryly at the dog hair in her hand. What was acceptable small talk about classical music in certain circles of society here in Berlin was of no concern to a street musician. And it should not even bother her. Mina sucked her lips between her teeth, biting down hard. She should at least have the courage to talk about the music she really enjoyed.

"Mozart had the power to touch hearts and to release people from the dreary confines of their daily lives. He was a magician of music," Elentar had told her. And she could see that he had meant every word he'd said. She envied him for that.

_She envied a street musician for the way he talked about Mozart?_

Mina shook her head at herself and briskly rose to her feet. "Girl, you have to watch yourself, or you will turn completely weird," she muttered to and went to the garbage bin. She tossed the dog hair into the bin and closed the lid with a satisfying thud, marred only slightly by the rustling sound of the plastic bag inside.

She put the vacuum cleaner back in the closet. A few minutes later she sat at her desk, listening to the radio, the local classical station, and tried to concentrate on preparing the next evening of her Sindarin course. Ten minutes later her tea was cold, the paper in front of her was still empty, and she was tapping her pen on the table in the rhythm of one of Mozart's concertos, now playing on the radio. After dinner Elentar had picked up his guitar and played for her. She had not even known that you could play Mozart on a guitar!

Mina took another sip of tea. Realizing that it was cold, and not all that tasty that way, she permitted herself an exasperated groan. There were days when she was driving herself crazy. Disgusted, she put the cap on her pen, shut off the radio and decided to take a walk.

Her walk inevitably led her past the thicket where she had discovered Elentar's sleeping place, and the damp undercrossing where he seemed to play his guitar when the weather was bad. The weather was bad today: it was January, it was cold, it was wet, and it was windy. No one in his right mind went for a walk on an evening like that.

Elentar was not in the undercrossing, and the thicket looked as bristly and abandoned as such an unkempt corner of bushes and trees next to the embankment of a suburban railway could possibly look.

**oooOooo**

She did not use that undercrossing on purpose during the following weeks. Nor did she choose to ride a certain suburban railway with the thought in mind that this was the train she had first seen Elentar on. She did not go by a certain crossroads because she had met him there.

She most certainly did not think about how he would pronounce a certain Sindarin word before teaching it in her classes. She also did not remember what he had said about her calligraphy when she sat at her desk during the evenings, patiently trying to feel the mood of swirls and swoops of tengwar before carefully, lovingly putting her pen to the paper.

It just so happened that her way to work led her past that thicket, through that undercrossing, over that intersection, and that this particular railway ran just a little earlier than the other line she could have used. And she was always careful with her pronunciation. She kept reminding her students that while this was an artificial language, Professor Tolkien had been a linguist, and he had left descriptions of the various sounds of his Elven languages with good reason. That was all there was to that little hesitation.

She had also read an essay about the emotional aspects to the art of making calligraphies. The memory of Elentar's words about the tengwar calligraphy done by the expert she had admired so much, _"…they lack the love of language that should be inherent to all ornamental depictions of Tengwar. Yours is much better. You just need more practice. And you need to stop doubting yourself so much,"_ had nothing to do with that, of course. And it was not that she avoided listening to classical music. She was simply more in the mood for some lively rock and pop music these days.

She glanced ahead, trying to see from a distance if there was a man sitting on the bench in that ratty undercrossing. A man with a guitar. She just liked to see what she was walking into. Just to be prepared. So she could come up with an appropriate greeting.

But the bench was empty.

She walked quickly through the undercrossing. It was cold and damp and smelled faintly of urine. There was a new graffiti on the wall. Nothing pretty, just an ugly black scratch tag. As she passed the thicket, she glanced at the tangled creepers and thorn bushes out of the corner of her eye. Was he at home?

She stopped in her tracks, turned around and stared hard at the bushes. Nothing moved. At home? How could anyone be "at home" here? How could she even think that? He probably had a place to stay during winter. He would be at one of the shelters for the homeless that the city's council supported. It was completely crazy to assume he would live outside in winter, in a thicket like that, with no roof above his head, and only his old dog for company and warmth.

But he had been living here in December. And now it was only the beginning of February. The mess of bushes and struggling elders, almost choked by dark creepers and vines, lay quiescent. Mina hesitated, her lips drawn in.

She would not enter that jungle just to look if he was still there.

Suddenly, in an eruption of black feathers and angry chattering, a blackbird lit down on a low branch just in front of her. Mina jumped back, her heart racing. "You… you… idiotic bird!" she gasped. The blackbird kept up a vigorous scolding. Mina quickly looked around if anyone had noticed her strange behaviour, then she walked on, her stride a little too quickly to be called purposeful or confident, her shoulders just a bit too tense.

The sound of a guitar! Mina involuntarily jerked around, searching the railway cabin, her breath catching a little, her heart reacting to instant excitement. But the music turned into cheap rock'n'roll, and the guitarist was a fat, sleazy man with tattoos on his throat, who stank of beer and spirits even at a distance of more than four feet away.

Later Mina stood at her kitchen window, staring down into the gathering gloom of another winter evening. Shadowy shapes of people were rushing past the house far down below. There was rain and snow in the wind, a horrible weather, blowing people off the streets and into warm and cosy apartments, emptying the street down below quicker than usually. Were the movements of that tall and slender figure hurrying around that corner more graceful than those of a usual accountant or IT-specialist returning home from work? And that shadow, had that been a dog or just a fluttering coat? It was impossible to tell.

"Get him out of your mind," Mina told herself, impatient and annoyed. "You did a good deed, feeding the dog a good dinner for once. Leave it at that."

**oooOooo**

And another dreary day nearing its dreary end, Mina thought as she hurried along. A dreary day filled with hours of dreariness and boredom. Today she had been more than tempted to scream at her students. And more than once. If they absolutely did not want to learn Middle English, why didn't they stay at home or go to a café? Did they absolutely have to disrupt her lecture with talking and giggling pointlessly? She could not help it that there was more to the old forms of English than suggestive riddles and Chaucer's more ribald tales. For heaven's sake, no matter what you studied, there were always some parts that were not quite as interesting as others!

"If they want to pass that exam, they'd better get their act together quickly," Mina muttered, and then coughed as they icy wind cut into the back of her mouth. "No one's died yet of boredom."

Although, today had been certainly a close call. She had spent all afternoon at the office of the German Tolkien Society. All alone, with pretty much nothing to do. She had replied to three e-mails, had sorted a small heap of mail, had called the printer about some flyers that were supposed to be ready next week, and then she had waited for the office hours to go by.When she had reached the point where she would have welcomed even another debate with Mr Karstens as a distraction, she had finally packed up her things and headed for the door. She was not quite ready to let herself be bored into insanity.

_It's so time for spring._ Mina shuddered with the cold, waiting for the lights to turn at the intersection. She was getting so sick of this weather, always cold, always wet and always dreary. No plans for tonight, so she would spend another evening in her apartment, playing with calligraphy, reading, drinking tea. If her life reflected her personality, she easily had to be the most boring person in Germany. The echoes of her footfalls in the undercrossing sounded almost like clapping hands, rhythmically expressing their agreement with this insight.Rolling her eyes at herself, Mina stopped as soon as she was out of the tunnel. She needed to snap out of this mindset. She had the life she wanted to have. It was ridiculous to allow herself to wallow in depression like that. After all, she wanted to be her life that way…

Time to get home and have a nice bowl of soup. She was almost ready to continue on her way, when her gaze was drawn to that thicket once more. A tangled mess of vines, creepers and thorny bushes. And she was almost certain that it was empty except for an angry blackbird and some garbage left by various dossers. She would probably tear her skirt if she ventured into that jungle. And for what? To disturb a bird and find some empty bottles of booze.

She sucked on her lip for another moment, then looked around quickly, furtive glances to make sure that no one was watching her. Then she tried to slip neatly through an opening in the thicket.

Three steps into the jungle, she gave up on "neatly" and opted for a muffled curse, as some brambles snagged not only her skirt, but penetrated painfully to the skin of her shinbones. Then she was through this natural wall, standing in the copse where she had met Elentar –

_and staring down at him._

**oooOooo**

He had heard her coming. Her angry footsteps in the undercrossing, the heavy breathing as she tried to reign in her temper, and her bitterness. The deep inhalation that heralded her decision to meet the challenge of her existence head on once more. And then, the surprise at the direction she took.

On another day, he would have disappeared in time, would have picked up his few belongings and noiselessly vanished between the tangled bushes and brambles. She would never have realized that he had been there, that he had watched her. But today, he could not bring himself to make that effort. He remained sitting on his knees in the mud, waiting for her to fight her way through the bushes and the thorns, his legs without feeling from having crouched there, unmoving, for hours on end. His body was paralysed with a cold that went far beyond the dreary weather of this winter day. He did not even look up as she entered the small copse. His eyes remained on the rough fur of the dog that was curled up in his lap, and on his hands, hands that were clutching the dog. Such an old dog, his muzzle was almost completely white with age, and the dog's body was so thin and emaciated beneath its shaggy coat that it felt more as if he was holding a kitten, and not a big dog.

The dog did not move.

The dog did not breathe.

The dog was dead.

The woman gasped when she saw him and the dog, instinctively taking a step backwards, entangling herself in the brambles all over again. When she had finally freed her skirt and stepped fully into the small copse, Elentar tried to force himself to look at her, to meet her eyes.

She had raised her hands to cover her mouth, and he saw how her eyes went wide with shock as she registered what she was looking at. A homeless man, a useless dosser and good-for-nothing street musician and vagabond sitting in the mud and holding his dead dog on his lap.

Elentar gritted his teeth, his fingers desperately gripping the stiffening body of his long-time companion. His knuckles were standing out whitely, and he realized for the first time how dirty his dog's fur was, matted and dirty, covering a body that was a mere skeleton. And still Mina had not said a word.

Finally Elentar raised his head again. He had not been able to disappear in time. Therefore he would have to face her, if he wanted to or not. He knew that she was not going to leave on her own. Vaguely he thought that he should have made the effort to run away when he had heard her angry, discontent steps in the tunnel. He should have packed up his things. He should have left the dead dog and run. But for once he had not been able to bring himself to run away. So now, he would have to face Mina over the corpse of the dog. From the few glimpses on the train and even just that one meeting with Mina, he guessed that this lady was more than a little stubborn. She would simply remain standing there for as long as it took him to gather the courage to look up and face her. No matter how long that was. So Elentar looked up, and looked at the woman over the scruffy, scrawny, unmoving body of his old dog.

Their eyes met. If it had been pity in her eyes, he could have rallied and called up his pride one more time. He could have summoned the sarcastic smile to his face, raised an eyebrow and sent her away with a few well-chosen, cruel words, faint echoes of his pain.

But there was no pity, no hint of condescension in her eyes. What he did see in her eyes completely floored him. _Patient, silent understanding._

She was waiting for him to say something. The silence lengthened. Her hair, growing damp in the unceasing rain, was beginning to curl around her chin. She shivered a little, but she did not move or look away.

Suddenly, she stepped forwards and knelt down in the mud in front of him. Her skirt was torn at a corner and he could see how the muddy water of a puddle seeped into the light green fabric. She covered his hands with hers. Her hands were slender, but strong for a woman, and very cold.

"If you want to, we can drive outside the city," she said, speaking slowly, and picking her words carefully."A friend of mine has bought a run-down farm over in the outskirts of eastern Berlin. She won't mind a guest sleeping in the earth of her property."

Her hands closed around his, gently, comforting, offering help and strength.

"_E garitha·hidh._" she added hesitantly in Sindarin, her voice a little husky, her accent strange and awkward to his ears.

He stared at Mina for a long moment, the words echoing in his heart and mind. Then he nodded wordlessly and began to cry.

"He will have peace."


	11. Two Meetings

_11. Two Meetings, Somewhere in the Sundering Seas (and elsewhere), Middle-earth, 397 of the Fourth Age_

Suddenly, he was awake again.

He was floating in dark green waters. There were shadows in the waters that were playing tricks on his eyes. Now and again it seemed to him as if he was held by a great hand, shaped like a gigantic dark blue wave. As his eyes grew accustomed to the strange view, he realized that in front of him was a body which belonged to this hand, a body formed of dark green shadows, like the hidden forests of seaweed, floating with the tides. From time to time a flash of silver glimmered in the darkness before him, and he could not tell whether he was seeing glimpses of silvery fish, swimming hither and thither in the shadows of seaweed or if he was looking at a mail shirt hidden underneath a green cloak.

Was this… death?

But why did his _fëa_ tarry here, in the deep waters of the Sundering Seas? Shouldn't he be hearing a call that would lead him to the Halls of Mandos? There to rest until the end of time?

Suddenly, a shadow was cast over him, and as he looked up, above him, outlined against the brighter, bluer waters near the surface, haloed in the rays of light that drifted downwards until they were lost in the depths of the ocean, Elentar saw a head… or the figure of a head. He could not see any contours of a face in the shifting waters, but it seemed to him that there was a head, a head crowned with a helmet of glittering water, plumed with the foam-crests of high waves, rushing angrily to shore.

What – who – where was he?

_You called my name._

A voice. But barely. This voice was so deep he almost could not hear it. A voice as deep and as wide as the Sundering Seas, Elentar thought. A voice that reminded him of the deep, wailing, wild song of the _limdoer_, the huge not-fish he had sometimes glimpsed from the ships he had sailed on when they were far out on the ocean: fish that were larger than the ship he was on, fish that birthed living young, fish that sang in a voice he could almost understand…

He looked up at the shape of the helmet. For a moment he thought he glimpsed an amused glittering where the eyes of this giant of the seas would be, if he was real. For this giant could not be real – this had to be a dream on the threshold of death. He was still underwater, and he was breathing – or was he? Elentar realized that he was not breathing. He was floating in the water, and there was no breath in his lungs and no beat of his heart. And there was no call to guide his _fëa_ to Aman the Blessed. A deep sadness filled his heart. He would not be called to Mandos: he was not numbered among the Eldar after all. He had caused his parents years of grief and despair for naught. At this thought a great weariness came over Elentar, and he lifted his head again, searching for a face under the helmet of waves and foam.

"Who are you? What do you want from me? If this is the end, I'd like it to be quick, if that is possible?"

A rolling movement seemed to shiver through the form before him, and a school of small fish glittering in all the colours of the rainbow burst out of where the mouth of the giant would be and sped away into the ocean around Elentar. As if the giant was… laughing, chuckling, as if Elentar's question amused him.

_You called me. I think it is you who want something from me. And though this is certainly an end, it is not the end. At least not yet._

"Who are you…" Elentar repeated, his voice dying to a fading, gargling whisper at the end. His voice sounded strange in the water. I called him? Whom did I call? He blinked, trying to gather his thoughts, even as the rolling chuckle flashed the greens of that cloak of seaweed and the silver of mail again.

"I was drowning. The helmsman had called to Uinen… but I thought Ossë was too angry to listen to his wife… I have never seen such a storm before, and I have been a sailor for more than one mortal lifetime by now… I called to… I…" Elentar stared at the helmet shining with the crystal clear water near the surface of the sea, at the foamy plume adorning it. If his heart was still beating, it would have skipped a beat.

"I called to Ulmo, Lord of the Waters," he whispered. His words seemed to die away in a small bubble, inaudible. But the great head above him nodded gently.

_You called me, Elentar Elrohirion. And now I am here. What is it that you wish of me?_

Ulmo. He had called Ulmo. And the Lord of the Waters had come. Then it was true what the legends said… that this Vala had never deserted Middle-earth, that he had never stopped caring for both Elves and Men. And he knew _his_ name!

"How, how do you know my name?"

All of a sudden the water darkened before him, flushing from down below, a sudden, vicious squall of high waves and strong winds. The voice held the power of storms and death when Ulmo spoke again.

_And how should I not know your name, given how many tears your parents cried into the Long Lake since you were born? Given how much grief and sadness about your disappearance was washed down the Celduin into the Sea of Rhûn? I have known your name for a long time now, Elentar Elrohirion: for all seas, lakes, rivers and fountains are alive with my spirit, and even as your mother sat grieving at the fountain in front of the house where you were born, I grew aware of her pain and its cause… you, most wayward son of all the peredhil. So tell me, what is it that you wish of me?_

Elentar cowered before the wrath of the Vala, but it was not so much because he was frightened by the power of Ulmo's anger. The pressure of the water forced him down on his knees, but the thought of his mother's tears, in the green-dark waters of the Long Lake, in the white rushing currents of the Celduin and in the bright emerald waves of the Sea of Rhûn… the memory of the white marble basin in which he had set his first toy ships afloat so many years ago… the memory of his mother's smiling embrace at this accomplishment…

…this broke his heart.

But it is impossible to cry in the water. What tears he had were lost the instant they were spilled, just another drop in the ocean.

"I wanted to ask you to save me, lord," Elentar finally replied. "I wanted to ask you to carry me to Aman and my kindred. But now… I'd ask you to simply let me die. My life has caused nothing but grief. Maybe my death will grant my parents peace, wherever their _fëa_ dwell now."

He thought of his father, but all he could remember were the lines of bitterness and disappointment in his face, and the echo of his father's voice, weary and annoyed, one of the many occasions when he had pleaded with Elentar to be patient, had promised him that he would grow up, and asked his son not to cause his mother so much pain. In vain…

_And how do you think your death would be a comfort to your parents?_

The figure of Ulmo before him was roiling with anger now, and Elentar could not bear to look at it any longer. He closed his eyes, shaking all over.

_Nay. _

Suddenly the voice changed. It was soft now, like the gentle lulling of waves and winds on a summer evening out on the Bay of Belfalas.

_Nay. Open your eyes, ion nîn, my son._

Hesitantly, Elentar opened his eyes again, astounded to see the figure before him much more clearly outlined in the light blue of summery seas.

_Nay, ion nîn. Your death would be no comfort to the ones who love you, parents, sisters, nephews and nieces, great-nephews and great-nieces, nor for their children. Yes – you caused pain and grief with your hot-headedness, your stubbornness. But do not forget that all of your tears are known to me, too. They are all accounted for. From the first time the other boy called you retarded, and you were too scared to ask your mother what that meant. _

Another great hand was held out to Elentar, and in its palm was a mound of shimmering pearls, beautiful in their subdued white and violet hues. This was what his tears looked like to Ulmo? Elentar stared at the pearls. They were beautiful. The hand withdrew, the shine of the pearls hidden by the green shadows of the lord's cloak of seaweed again.

_I am afraid that it is not in my power to decide when you are allowed to reach the Blessed Realm. _

"But I will? One day?" Elentar tried to discern the expression in the face above him, but there were only shifting waters below the helm, and a fleeting glimpse of where eyes would be. Again the rolling of waters that sent chuckling vibrations through the form before him.

_I do like you, Elentar Elrohirion. _

But you won't answer my question, Elentar thought and sighed, a series of tiny bubbles streaming away from his mouth. How could he be sighing when he was not breathing? Elentar frowned at a tiny golden fish that swam up to him to investigate the bubbles. Again the form before him shivered in a dance of small, amused wavelets.

_Nay, I will not answer your question, impatient child. Instead I will ask you a question. I may not take you to Aman, nor may I return you to Middle-earth. But there is a place where I may take you. Or I can – as you asked me to – let you drown and die. What will it be, young Elentar? Life, a path into an uncertain future? Or death, a path to an unknown end?_

_You have to decide quickly, for I cannot keep your body alive in the water of the Sundering Seas for very much longer._

Elentar stared at the Vala. If his heart had been beating, it would have been racing. As it was, his heart did not beat, but his stomach leaped as if he were on board of a ship frolicking in heavy waters. Rolling and tightening with nerves.

He thought about what the Vala had told him: his death would not comfort his family. Elentar remembered the last minutes in the water before he had fallen unconscious. He had not wanted to die. And Ulmo had said that he had not the power to decide when he would be allowed to reach Aman. When. Not if.

"Can you tell me anything about the place you will take me?"

Again that amused movement of the water, crests of foam, glimpses of silver, a swirl of agitated fish.

_Nay, I may not. But…_

The other hand appeared again from the depths of the green cloak. It reached up below the helmet, as if it was fingering for something at the throat of the Vala.

…_just in case that your journey won't be over at this place I may not tell you anything about…_

The hand was suddenly in front of Elentar, a huge hand of pale green, large enough that he could have lain down on it completely outstretched. At its centre a small something lay. Elentar squinted against the shifting, dim light filtered through the waters. It looked like a shell. Yes. It was a closed oyster. Gnarled and marked with barnacles, grey and white, with bits of stringy seaweed attached to it. But it was not only an oyster, Elentar realized. There was a hole in the thinner end of the oyster, and a silver chain was slipped through that hole. It was a pendant.

_I would like to give you a token. You may find it useful in the darkest hour. But I warn you: you are still young. When I say the "darkest" hour my measuring of darkness may not be what a young and impatient peredhel considers dark. And I hope you have heard the words "keep it secret, keep it safe" before?_

An oyster pendant? Elentar frowned. But he reached for the chain. He would not die. And Ulmo, Lord of the Waters, was giving him a token for a dark hour.

Elentar put the chain with the oyster around his neck and straightened up. He lifted his head and faced the Vala, feeling new strength flow through his body.

"Then take me where you will, my lord. I hope I will not disappoint you."

The Lord of the Waters inclined his head once more, and for a moment Elentar thought that he saw the ghost of a smile, like sunset on the waves. Then the water crashed over him, and darkness claimed him once more.

**oooOooo**

Elentar came awake slowly. He was aching all over and shivering. He had trouble opening his eyes, and when he rubbed feeble fingers over his lids, he found that they were encrusted with salt. His throat was burning, and he was thirsty, so thirsty that it was a sizzling pain that seemed to devour his body. He tried to swallow. His throat muscles did not seem to work, but the attempt made his stomach tighten and roil. Elentar rolled over and convulsed in spasms of agony, vomiting bile and seawater into the sands.

When the heaving finally stopped, he found himself on his knees in the sand. Sand. A beach. He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. A solid weight collided painfully with his chin. A pendant that hung from a silver chain. Elentar sat up. He had never seen this pendant before… a barnacled oyster, closed and attached to a silver chain.

Suddenly, his memories returned to him. Like a distant dream… a great helmet, plumed with cresting waves… a gigantic, pale green hand holding out this pendant to him.

And a choice…

Death, or life.

Elentar inhaled deeply, growing aware of the pain in his body, and of the heavy beating of his heart.

He was alive.

But where was he? He looked around. He was on a long beach in the shape of a sickle moon. Cold blue waters lapped at the shore. The sand under his hands was wet and fine, a dark dun colour, awash with pearlescent shells.

Gulls were wheeling above him and there were dunes grown with beach grass obscuring the coastline behind him. At the left corner of the beach, rocks jutted out of the dunes, rising up to form high, unassailable cliffs. And on top of those cliffs a grey tower rose up, round and forbidding against a stormy sky.

Someone lived on this island.

For it had to be an island: if Ulmo had not been able to bring him to Middle-earth or Aman, this had to be an island somewhere in between. Perhaps one of the Enchanted Isles encircling Tol Eressëa?

His parched throat constricted with the pain of vomiting and thirst.

He'd go to the tower. Maybe he could get some water there.

He staggered to his feet, his knees almost giving out under him. Almost drowning had weakened the strength of his body beyond belief. The thought of water kept Elentar upright. He stumbled across the sands, quickly learning that he had to stay on the firm, damp stretch of sand close to the sea, as he was too weak to negotiate the shifting sands of the dunes.

Every step was an effort, driving away all thoughts or memories. When he was finally close to the cliffs, he was drenched in sweat, and the encounter with the Lord of the Waters had taken on a surreal quality. He was not sure if he had only dreamed it now while he lay on the sands, washed up at the beach after the shipwreck… but if it had only been a dream, where had this pendant come from? He curled his hand around the rough shell of the oyster protectively. And it seemed to him that new strength flowed through his limbs as he did so.

"Welcome, Elentar Elrohirion."

Elentar jumped at the sound of a voice. It was the voice of a woman, but more than that. It was not the voice of a mortal woman: it held a hint of wind in the trees and the tinkling of bells. Elentar looked up and stared at the sight of a middle aged woman dressed in a white robe, standing on the crest of the dune above him. Her hair was grey, mingled with silver and floated down to her hips. Her eyes looked at him with a penetrating gaze, though how she could even see him, he did not know. For her eyes were like molten silver, swirling silver, with no pupil, no iris and no white.

"I am Lumenyáre. Welcome to the Lost Isles, Elentar. We have been waiting for you."

**oooOooo**

The woman took his hand and led him up the cliffs. How she did that, Elentar could not tell. But as long as she held his hand, there was new strength to his movements, and he could climb dunes and cliffs easily, even though the roughly hewn steps that led up to the tower were steep and would have made him breathe faster even if he had not been weakened by nearly drowning.

They entered the tower through a thick wooden door. It was made of dark wood, of the _tulus dûr_, the dark poplar, if he was not mistaken, and studded with large nails of _mithril_, shining brightly even in this dim, overcast day. The nails formed a meaningful design, but for some reason his mind would not provide the meaning. A slight smile on Lumenyáre's lips made Elentar wonder if she could read his mind. Who was this woman? he wondered. Or maybe rather, what was this woman?

"Excellent question," a bright voice interrupted his thoughts.

He looked around for the speaker, and out of the twilight of a shadowy arch stepped a young girl of maybe thirteen or fourteen years, a girl with bright silvery hair, and eyes that shone like _mithril_. The daughter of Lumenyáre?

"No," the girl laughed at him. "You have to do better than that!"

Then she stepped forwards until they were almost touching, her pointy breasts touching his chest, separated only by the thin white cloth of her robe and the tattered remains of his shirt. An icy shiver rippled through his body as if he had been touched by the eternal ice of the Helcaraxë.

"I am Amaurea," she whispered. Then she lifted her head and kissed him gently on the lips. "Welcome, king of the stars."

He gasped with shock at the touch, and for a moment his heart ceased beating. For a long moment there was no heartbeat, no breath in his body, no flow of blood or life. Then, suddenly, like the slow movement of scales after a shifting of weights, his heartbeat resumed, steady and deep, and his breath flowed easily.

He closed his mouth and swallowed hard, his throat like parchment, the little liquid that had formed in this mouth warm and painful in his sore throat.

A cackle of laughter alerted him to the presence of a third person.

It was the laughter of an old woman, dry, rough, vibrating with a hint of malicious amusement. He looked over Amaurea's shoulder, trying to discover the woman in the shadows of the hallway.

There she was: an old woman, her hair more white than silver, gnarled and bent, but still somehow graceful and beautiful beyond the beauty of a human woman. And her eyes, too, were pools of silver, like mirrors of _mithril_.

"I am Vanwië. And do not fear – I will not touch you."

Elentar stared at her, for a moment speechless. Then, trying to gather his wits, he asked the first question that came to his mind. "What are you?"

There was a chuckle at his side, then Lumenyáre stepped around him and drew Amaurea away from Elentar even as the crone Vanwië took a step forwards out of the darkness. The three women looked at Elentar in silence for a moment. A moment of half-formed thoughts and almost remembered legends, a moment of his mouth gasping a disbelieving _oohhh…_

"_We are Vanwië, Lumenyáre and Amaurea."_

"_We are past, today and tomorrow."_

"_We are the Fates."_

"_We know what was, we know what is, we know what will be."_

"_You have crossed the tides of time and reached the Lost Isles from whence no one has ever returned to Middle-earth since the Enchanted Isles were lifted from the seas by Eru Ilúvatar."_

"You are _Ainur_!" Elentar gasped finally.

Amaurea broke the silence with a sound that was almost a giggle, or perhaps the sound of wind chimes in a strong breeze. "Yes, we are."

"Give the poor boy something to drink," suggested Vanwië. "And maybe we should ask him to sit down… he looks as if he is going to faint on the spot."

Indeed Elentar felt his knees weakening, and he reached out for the nearest pillar to steady him. It was Lumenyáre who came to his aid. Offering her arm, she pointed ahead, where daylight shimmered at the end of a long hallway with vaulted ceilings.

"There is a small courtyard that way, a well with clear water and a bench where you can sit down and rest for a while."

He nodded weakly. Leaning heavily on Lumenyáre's arm, he allowed himself to be lead down the hallway and into the daylight once more. He noticed that both Amaurea and Vanwië carefully kept at a distance. _Amaurea… _the young girl… Ainu… Fate… with a shock he realized that she would be the one to dole out his destiny, all opportunities and chances of his life. And the old crone, _Vanwië…_ It would be her wheezing old woman's voice that would one day send his _fëa_ on its way, to the Halls of Waiting or beyond the circles of this world.

But for now she would not touch him.

"I am your life as you live it," Lumenyáre said. "Thus you may touch me without fear. You only touch what strength you have now… I am your now – not quite as dangerous as my sisters, you might say. Here, sit down."

He slumped down on the marble bench gratefully. On a bright day the octagonal courtyard would have been beautiful, paved with white flag stones, the archways lined with ivy, and a slender white tree on a patch of lawn near the well at its centre. Even today, with the sky overcast and grey, the courtyard was filled with light.

Amaurea and Vanwië remained standing a few feet away from him, unmoving, their bodies unnaturally still, as if they were stiff gowns that adorned their true forms only on rare and strange occasions.

Amaurea laughed again, a glittering sound that was almost visible as golden sparks struck from a blade. "Indeed, young _peredhel_, indeed. But you would find our true forms too terrible to behold. And the Lord of the Waters did not bring you here so that we would kill you."

"For what did he bring me here?" Elentar asked, his voice painful and rasping.

"Later," Lumenyáre said. Then she bent over the rim of the well, drawing up a bucket that had been tied to the side of the well with a silver chain. She dipped a simple goblet into the bucket and then turned to offer it to Elentar. "Drink, for I know you are weary and thirsty. And there is no time for you to rest here."

Elentar accepted the goblet. "Thank you, my lady."

He put the goblet to his lips and wanted to drink greedily. But wisdom gained in many years as a sailor prevailed, and he settled for many small swallows and deep regular breaths in between to force his abused body to welcome the life-saving liquid.

He could not tell how long he spent drinking the water of the Lost Isles, but later it seemed to him that it might have been hours as well as weeks. When he finally put down the goblet, he felt completely refreshed and rested, calm of mind and strong of body, as if he had slept peacefully for many nights and rested many days to regain what strength he had lost.

"Thank you," he repeated. Then a memory of a question drifted into his mind. "Why did Ulmo bring me to you? You said that no one has ever returned to Middle-earth from here. Am I to stay here, until I grow old and weary? Until it is time for my _fëa_ to fly where it would?"

That did not seem logical to him; Ulmo had offered him death then and there, why would he give him a choice of a quick death by drowning and a slow death of lingering on the Lost Isles until all the years of his _fëa_ were used up?

"You are right, smart boy." This was Vanwië, a wheezing cackle barely kept back.

Amaurea rolled her eyes at the old woman. "Indeed you are, Elentar. You asked to cross the Tides of Time…"

"But I meant that I wanted to go to Aman," Elentar objected.

Now Vanwië was laughing in earnest. "You want, you want, you want! I want to know when you will learn that the universe and all of Eä does not revolve around you –" she stopped speaking, and laughed again, a shrill, malicious old woman's laugh that was painful to his ears. "- I forgot. I _do_ know."

Lumenyáre shook her head at the other _Ainu_. "Like Ulmo, we may not take you to Aman, nor bring you back to Middle-earth. There is no way from the Lost Isles to Middle-earth, though there are many ways leading away from here… though only very few have the power, the fate and the strength to travel them."

Elentar stared at her. Not Middle-earth. Not Aman.

Another way?

And he would have the strength to travel it?

But where?

And why?

"Are you willing to find out?" Amaurea asked, her voice suddenly sweet, full of promise.

Elentar looked up and discovered that Lumenyáre had gone to stand with her sisters. They stood as a triangle, Amaurea and Lumenyáre held the hands of Vanwië, thin hands, the veins thick and prominent, thin arms with fading skin, yet filled with the light of the Flame Imperishable. He shuddered at the sight. But Amaurea and Lumenyáre were holding their hands out to him.

"If you are willing to find out, come into our midst," Lumenyáre told him.

Not Aman. Not Middle-earth. Somewhere else.

"Is there a way back?" he asked, suddenly fearful.

It was Amaurea who answered, her voice gentle and full of sympathy. But her answer was less than reassuring. "Maybe. I cannot tell. Our powers belong to Arda, and not to that place. The place you can go to, if you choose to."

Involuntarily Elentar clutched the oyster shell that hung around his neck. _Maybe…_Was that good enough?

Suddenly it seemed to him as if a wave of fire flowed from the oyster shell, a wave of strength and courage. Somewhere else. Not Middle-earth. Not Aman. _Not Arda!_

"Take me where you will," Elentar said and stepped into the triangle of power formed by the Fates.

**oooOooo**

**For A/N & questions, please check my forum at FFNet "The Fourth Theme of the Ainulindalë".**


	12. Where Did You Learn Sindarin?

**12. Where did you learn Sindarin?**

Mina concentrated on her driving. He watched her from the side, an attempt to keep his thoughts away from the dead body of his old companion, lying in the back of the car, covered with an old blanket.

It was not her car. If he had known that she would have to borrow a car from a neighbour – an emergency arrangement, she had told him – he would have gone to the nearest hardware store and spent his last few Euro on a shovel. But at the time he was already standing in the hallway of her apartment, the wrapped form of his dead dog lying at his feet.

If she could borrow a car and call a friend, asking for permission to bury a dead dog in her orchard, then he could muster the courage to accept this as the gift it was meant to be.

"Aline said that we are lucky," Mina remarked. "The ground is not frozen. Two weeks ago it would have been impossible."

They were waiting at some traffic lights, a non-descript crossroads in the outskirts of Eastern Berlin. There were already allotment gardens creeping in between the orderly rows of grey apartment blocks. The day was already getting darker. If they did not hurry, it would be dark before they had reached their destination.

"That's good," Elentar said. What else could he say?

She took a moment to look at him, her hands relaxing imperceptibly as her attention shifted away from the lights – still red. "No." Her eyes were dark with sympathy. "It's not good. It's only better than the alternative."

The lights turned, and they were on their way again.

The grip of the shovel felt curiously good in his hand. Solid wood. It was dark now. The trees around them, apple, cherry, scrawny, seemed sleepy in the gloom of this cold not-yet spring night.

Aline had turned out to be much like those scrawny trees. A thin, energetic young woman, mother of three and alone, turning this run-down farm into an alternative way of living – organic, home grown food, a farm shop, artists' workshops. Armed with two strong electric torches, she had led them to this place, way at the back of the orchard, nimbly threading her way through soggy old grass and hanging branches.

"You can bury him here," Aline had said. "Please be careful to make the hole deep enough that no scavengers can get at him. I don't want the kids to find him and start poking him." It was not quite clear if she was bothered by this thought because of the dog's peace or because a carcass would be a less than sanitary toy for her children. She had shoved the other torch at Mina. "I'll have tea ready when you get back."

With that she had left them there, a Tolkien scholar, a homeless vagabond, and a dead dog in an orchard just outside of Berlin, one cold February night at the beginning of the 21st century.

He gripped the shovel firmer and kept on with his work. The light of Mina's torch was unwavering, lighting up maybe a square foot of ground between a fence of curling, rusty barbed wire, an old apple tree and a slightly younger plum. Almost out of sight was a small thicket of brambles that promised raspberries and blackberries come summer.

He worked quickly.

"Do you think this hole is deep enough?" He knew it was. There was this strange need to break the silence, to reassure himself that there was someone in the darkness behind the strange brightness of the electric torch.

The light wavered slightly. Mina cleared her throat. "I don't know," she said. "It looks deep to me." He could hear how she swallowed. She adjusted her grip on the torch. "Yes, it's surely deep enough." She hitched her shoulders up. She was probably cold. While the ground was no longer frozen, it was far from warm.

Elentar inhaled deeply.

The hole was deep enough. No use postponing the inevitable. For a long moment he stood unmoving, the shovel in his hands, the grip now warm, smooth and familiar in his hands. He had to force himself to shove it into the heap of earth he had piled up next to the hole and turn around to where the still form lay that had been his only friend and companion for nearly fifteen years.

He knelt down in the grass next to the shrouded body of the dead dog. The cold wetness of grass and earth seeped through his trousers. The blanket. He ought to ask about the blanket.

"I don't need that blanket anymore," Mina put in. "And he should not be buried without… some cover."

He turned his head to stare at her. He could hear in her voice that she was really bothered by the thought. How did she continually manage to surprise him? He ought to reply with something that expressed what he felt. But he was not used to putting words to his feelings anymore. And already the pause was becoming awkward. "Thank you," he finally said.

He picked up the dead body of his dog. It felt curiously light and empty. Like a stuffed toy. Memories stirred. But Elentar had become very good at not thinking, at not remembering, at keeping his mind a cold and empty place that could not hurt. So there were no thoughts of a romping puppy that brought tears of laughter to his eyes, no memories of countless cold, wet nights of shared warmth, no recalled feeling of warm wetness when a long pink tongue woke him in the mornings, no remembering the coarse touch of fur on a belly, the best place to scratch an ecstatic dog… No memories, no thoughts, no regrets, no hopes. Just the feeling of the damp fabric of his jeans pressed against his knees, and the softness of the blanket under his hands.

He turned to the hole and carefully knelt down again, unheedful of the wet earth that now added stains of brown dirt to his already wet trousers. Gently he lowered the dead body of his dog into the hole. It was just big enough. His old companion fit in snugly, coming to lie on his side, the way he had enjoyed sleeping, snuffling in his sleep now and again, paws twitching in a dream.

Suddenly the light of the torch was much closer.

He looked up and saw that Mina was kneeling in the dirt, too, her neat woollen slacks soaking up the dampness much quicker than his own threadbare jeans. She bent forwards over the hole and reached for the corners of the blanket. Carefully she drew the lower corners upwards, while tucking in the cover on top. Methodically, slowly, she worked her way along the side. Strands of her hair had escaped the tie, black and silver. She was a little young to have grey hair, he mused. Though… considering her age, well in her thirties, maybe not.

Finally she sat back on her heels, the shaft of the light hitting the wall of the hole, the carefully tucked-in blanket soiled already with some loose crumbs of earth that had fallen down on it while she had secured the blanket.

"There," she said in low voice. "Much better."

"Yes," he agreed, and there was a strange feeling in his chest, tight, and… "Yes, much better."

He got up and reached for the shovel.

**oooOooo**

"Do you want to stay here for the night?" Aline asked them over a steaming mug of tea. "One of the guestrooms is empty. The bed is a bit narrow." Raised eyebrows invited Mina to say more.

He felt the same frown touch his eyebrows that appeared on Mina's face. Then she smiled at her friend. "No, thank you very much. I have to teach tomorrow." She drained her cup. As she looked at Aline, her eyes grew deep with an expression of sincere appreciation. "Thank you very much for allowing us to bury the dog here. It would have been hard on Elentar to give him up to the animal disposal."

He realized that it was time for him to say something, too. "Yes. Thank you very much."

Aline nodded at them. "It's hard to lose a pet. At least he'll have peace here."

Elentar thought of what he had seen of the orchard. Apple trees, plum and cherry. Soon it would be spring and white blossoms would rain down on a patch of bare earth. Grass would grow on it again come summer, and when Aline's children would clamber up the trees to get at the ripe apples and plums, and get all smeared with berry stains in the thicket just around the corner, nothing would show that there had been a small hole there one cold night this winter. He exhaled softly.

"Yes, he will," he agreed. "Thank you."

"You'll stay for the night." It was not a question. It was long after midnight and Mina looked tired. She was pale and there were dark circles under her eyes.

He wanted to say, "No, no you have already done more than enough for me." Elentar did not like sleeping indoors. Especially in a place where the only way out, the only way of escape was one door. Jumping was not an option from this high.

But when he looked at her eyes, there was again not pity, but only this quiet sympathy. And something else… a hint of darkness. He realized that she did not want to be alone tonight. With sudden clarity, he saw how she would spend the night if he did not stay, if he took the easy way out. She would not be able to sleep, but drink countless cups of tea, aimlessly wandering through her small apartment, checking that the door was locked for twenty times, gazing out of the window on the dark street down below every so often, sitting down on the couch only to jump up again after two minutes.

One night. That was the least he could do.

"It would be very kind of you," he said.

She smiled, a shaky grimace of friendliness worn thin by a long day and sadness over the events. "It's the least I can do."

"Here," her arms were heaped with a sheet, pillow, and a thick blanket. "You should be quite comfortable on the couch. I know it's not as good as a real bed, but…" She stopped and blushed.

He could not help a wry smile curling up the corners of his mouth. "Trust me, the place where I normally sleep is a far cry from clean sheets, blanket and a pillow. I'll sleep like a king."

She sucked her lips in between her teeth and bit down on them, something she always did when she was thoughtful, embarrassed or anxious. "Sorry."

Then, he was beginning to believe that courage and honesty were truly one of her basic character traits, she continued, "I'm really sorry. I have no idea how life is like for someone with no home. I don't think I can even imagine it. And just now… I think I almost forgot about that."

She had held out the bedding to him when she had entered the room, obviously expecting him to take them and make his bed for himself. Now she turned around and went to the couch. Before he knew how to react, she had started making up his bed, quickly spreading out and tucking in the sheet, fluffing up the pillow and pulling back the blanket invitingly.

He did not know what to say or do, he simply stood there, perplexed.

"There," This time her shaky smile was deeper. Embarrassment almost winning.

"Look, that was really not necessary!"

"Just a moment." Somehow his defensiveness made her feel better. She went into the kitchen, where he heard her rummage around for a minute. On her return she placed a bottle of water and a glass on the low table next to the couch, along with a neatly folded towel. She grinned when she turned to him again. "And I'll make you a nice breakfast tomorrow. How's that? Almost a proper B & B!"

He felt his eyebrow rise up. "I thought you have to teach tomorrow?"

Mina shook her head. "A little white lie. I have a day off. I just thought you'd prefer going back here. And now… sleep well."

**oooOooo**

She tiptoed into the room. She had not been able to sleep well. The events of the day had kept her brain moving and moving long after she had put out the light, the memories of the day replaying and replaying in scenes of dreary shadows in her mind. Curiously enough, when she had woken way before dawn, she felt wide awake, and only a little colder than usual, due to lack of sleep and the excitement of the previous day.

Now a quick look to see if her guest was ready for breakfast.

She peeked around the corner into her living room. Instantly a smile touched her face. He was still fast asleep. The air was filled with a faint floral scent. As she looked closer, she realized that he had the towel wound around his head. He must have taken advantage of warm water and her shampoo.

Suddenly, her mouth opened in a wordless gasp, her hand cold on her lips, her heart racing.

With the towel wrapped around his dreadlocks, his ear was exposed to the first grey light of dawn filtering through the window. She blinked and looked again. She did not dare to move, to step closer because she was afraid that she would wake him.

So she stood and stared.

And stared.

At an ear that was…

…more than just "_slightly pointed and 'elvish'_", her memory supplied a quote from one of Tolkien's letters.

Finally she shook herself out of her daze. What charming tricks nature could play! she thought, as she got out the ingredients to make a hearty breakfast in the kitchen. At least she thought this extravagant deviation of the normal, round shape of an ear extremely enticing. Well, she was also a fan of all things Tolkien, she amended. I bet poor Elentar was teased quite mercilessly about the weird shape of his ears when he was a kid. Children are so cruel.

Her mind supplied instantly a vision of a dreary elementary school somewhere in Germany with a thin, dark haired boy in the middle of a group of laughing and pointing bullies… as a kid his parents no doubt had made him wear his hair short, no matter that he was called "rabbit ear" or something like that…

She wondered how it would feel to touch his ears… real, pointy ears, not the rubber ones that so many Tolkien fans put over their real ears at fannish events.

"Don't even go there, Mina!" she hissed at herself.

"Where?"

Heat washed over her face. She knew she did not blush, not really, but it certainly felt like that, hot and uncomfortable. "I – uh – I – I was just talking to myself; a bad habit, I know. I should get a cat or something, so that I have someone to talk to."

She was glad that she could turn around and had something to reach for. She presented the pot of tea, just ready for serving. "Would you like a cup of tea? Breakfast is almost ready."

Elentar smiled at her. Without the towel, freshly washed, his heavy, black dreadlocks looked almost beautiful, although his bony face was rather too thin for this hairstyle to look good. She imagined what he would look like with a more "elvish" hairstyle, long dark strands of hair flowing down his back, revealing those odd ears… and then there were these slanted eyebrows and the clear grey eyes. He would look almost like a real elf!

She realized that she was staring at Elentar wordlessly and the heat was back. "Tea," she repeated, flustered.

"Thank you," he replied. "That would be great."

Why did he look at her like that? With that penetrating silvery gaze of his?

After breakfast it started to rain. A heavy, cold, not-yet spring rain that was just a few degrees away from snow.

"Look, why don't you stay until the rain's stopped. I'd…" She had wanted to say 'I wouldn't send a dog out into this kind of weather'. "No one should be out in that kind of weather."

She could see that he wanted to argue, that he wanted to leave. He looked out of the window for long minutes. Mina knew what he had to be thinking of. What a dismal day it would be, out in the streets in this kind of weather, when no one would want to take the time to listen to his guitar playing in that damp undercrossing. And today he would be all alone out there. For the first time in many years. That dog had been old. At least thirteen, maybe sixteen. Elentar had told her that he had gotten the dog as a puppy… they must have grown up together.

"Please," she said. "Stay. You could help me with my translation project! And maybe even tell me where and how you managed to learn Sindarin like that!"

He ignored her question, but he was considering her suggestion, his gaze on the rain that was slowly turning into snow outside the window. Finally, he exhaled deeply as if he was forcing himself to relax. "Well, if you really need help, I guess I can stay for a bit. It's the least I can do after your efforts on my behalf yesterday."

Now it was her turn to raise her eyebrows at his stilted way of speaking. Again he ignored her. Then he sniffed a bit, thoughtfully? Disdainfully?

"However, if you expect me to help you, you really have to do something about your accent."

"My what?" she gaped at him.

"Your accent," he repeated. "Your accent is atrocious. Not that mine is much better now, I guess. But still…"

**oooOooo**

It was late in the afternoon, and Mina's jaw muscles were hurting from trying to pronounce familiar syllables and sounds in quite unfamiliar ways. The day was fading away into a flurry of snow and rain outside. Elentar was a stern taskmaster, and he refused to reveal how he had learned so much about Tolkien's exotic elvish languages. But he certainly spoke Sindarin as if he had been born to it.

Mina realized that she wanted him to stay another night.

I learned more about Sindarin today than during the last two years, the academic in her justified the thought. And it would be inhuman to send him outside in that kind of weather, the humanitarian inside her added. Apart from that, I enjoy his company, the woman whispered in her heart. _You what?_

There, the voice of reason. You enjoy the company of a homeless tramp with dreadlocks?  
You want to keep him here on your couch like an oversized pet?

He would look better with long, smooth elvish braids, the woman inside her sighed longingly. MINA!

"You are really into this 'Lord of the Rings' stuff, aren't you?"

"Hm?"

"Are you falling asleep?" Elentar glanced at the clock. "Oh, I am sorry. I had not realized how late it is already. I'd better get going."

He made as if to rise from this chair. Instantly, Mina held out her hand. "No, no, no," she said hastily. "I – my mind – my thoughts just wandered for a moment there. What did you ask me?"

"I was just thinking how involved you are in this… fantasy world." He looked at the many books piled around her desk, Tolkien's Letters, Lord of the Rings, Tengwar, Sindarin, Quenya, Old English, and there was a Middle-earth screen saver flittering on her computer screen.

"No computer games?"

Mina shook her head. "My interests are more of a scholarly nature. And besides, computer games can be really dangerous." She pointed to her pin board. "A young woman died in London last year when she was testing some new kind of computer game about Tolkien's Middle-earth."

"Really? Wow, how did that happen?" Elentar reached for the newspaper clipping she had indicated. Somehow "wow" sounded not like a word he should use.

He took the clipping and started to read.

"_Ú-chenion_, I don't understand, this… this… this…" he trailed off, his voice a whisper, his face deadly pale.

"What?" Mina took the piece of old newspaper from his hand.

"_Young Woman Dies in Middle-earth – London._ Jarro McCourt, aged 25, died when she tested a new kind of computer game that was supposed to take the player directly into virtual fantasy worlds, in her case Tolkien's Middle-earth. After the success of Peter Jackson's movies a computer game like this would have been an immediate success on the market. "New Dimensions", the company that developed the game, claims there is no connection between the game and the death of Jarro McCourt. Officer Paul Gerrick, who is in charge of the on-going investigations, said yesterday that he is determined to clear up what caused this death. "The kids would go mad for a game like that, we have to make sure that it is really safe before it hits the market, and we need to find out why Ms McCourt died."

Jarro McCourt's parents have filed a lawsuit against New Dimensions."

There was even a picture. A pretty young woman with brown hair and an easy smile. Something about the cast of Jarro McCourt's features reminded Mina of Elentar.

"What's the matter?" It was really strange, the way Elentar stared at his hand, the hand she had just taken the bit of old newspaper from. He looked as if he had seen a ghost.

"Did you know her?" She guessed that was possible; even a homeless vagabond living out in the streets like Elentar must have grown up somewhere, must have had friends and parents…

"_Ú-chenion, ú-chenion, _I don't understand! What kind of cruel joke is this?"

He repeated over and over again, that he didn't understand.

"Did you know her?" Mina was getting worried. He must have known her. He almost appeared as if he was on the edge of a nervous breakdown. She put her hand on his arm. He felt so thin! Too thin, but strong. She pulled him around to face her. "What's the matter, Elentar? Did you know her?"

He allowed her to turn him around without resisting as if he was completely numb with shock. Even if he had known that girl, this was a very strange reaction.

"What's the matter? What did she mean to you?"

He stared at her, moving his mouth silently as if he wanted to speak, but no sound emerged. She could see that he had to force himself to speak coherently.

"You are right," he said finally. His voice was breathy and too high with shock.

"I did know her. A long time ago. But that was in Esgaroth. And that was almost three hundred years ago." He swallowed hard and stared Mina right in the eyes, his face almost white, his eyes blazing.

"You see, she was my mother."

**oooOooo**

**For A/N, please have a look at my FFNet forum**!


	13. Friendship

**13. Friendship, Vienna, Europe, 1781**

Elentar was trying to get drunk, and he was having a hard time accomplishing this goal. His first efforts at this art, conducted in the "Black Whale" of Umbar, had eventually been crowned with success, and a horrible headache on the next day. But he had yet to find spirits in this world that had the same potency as the date juice served in the notorious harbour pub of the corsair city. So here he was, on this unseasonably cold evening of May 10, 1781, in the Greek quarter of Vienna, trying to get drunk, and already running out of funds to do so.

He raised his mug again. He was, once again, sitting in the "Golden Angel". The beer was good – having a taste in good beer was a tradition among the proprietors of this establishment, solicitously kept up since the pub had opened as "Yellow Eagle" sometime in the 15th century.

Not that Elentar frequented the establishment quite that long.

But long enough: he stared into his mug, trying to remember when he had first come to this pub.

_It had not been called the "Golden Angel" then, but the "Red Roof". A friendly, clean tavern, offering good beer and fresh food. The perfect place to celebrate his engagement. The perfect day, too. Sunny, and bright with spring, bright with hope. For his Katharina was smiling at him – and her father was smiling at him, too. Her good for nothing brother, of course, cheerful as ever, was grinning widely, too. And his heart had been so wide, so wide with the possibilities of this new world and this new city and a new craft…_

_Crawling ashore near Le Havre, in the middle of the seventeenth century, Elentar had spent his first ten years in this world on sailing ships. It had been the natural thing to do: he did not know any of the languages of this new and fascinating world, but he **did** know how to do a sailor's job – even though the ships of this world were much taller than the ones he was used to. And that much experience in life he already had: to make a life, you had to make a living._

He downed another mug and signalled the serving wench for another.

_Working as a sailor had been the natural thing to do. But the memory of the oceans of this world still made his skin crawl. It had been more than just his experience as a sailor and the need to earn money that had made him take ship in Le Havre. It had been a desire to keep a connection to his past, however tenuous it might be. The waters of his home world had echoed with the song of creation, the Ainulindalë… that was the real reason for why his first instinct had been to take ship again in this strange new world._

He accepted the new mug and drank deeply.

_But here…_

He put down the beaker with a thump.

_Here everything was different._ _This was not like his home – the place where he was born, he corrected himself quickly. He had been foolish to expect that it would be the same in any way._

_For it was not. And it would never be._

Another swallow. The beer was good in this tavern. As good as it had always been.

_As good as it had been, when he had come here first, fleeing the ocean and its silence. He had reached this beautiful city in May 1675, ready to make a new start. And when he had met Katharina Augustin… and her brother, the singer Marx… and her father, the merchant… And suddenly, suddenly this strange new world had been full of life and full of opportunities…_

And another swallow.

_Before Katharina's brother had started drinking and whoring. Before the plague had struck._

Elentar signalled for another refill.

_When he had still believed that this world could really become his home. The home of his heart, for his heart had brown hair and laughing eyes, and when she danced with him, in this very tavern, he felt as if he could leap for joy…_

The tenth pint, and he knew he could not afford another.

_Why did he keep coming here? Did he enjoy the torture of those sweet memories of a distant spring?Her loving smile – her brother's cheerful, drunken song…_

_"Every day was a fest,  
Now we just have the pest!  
Now all the corpses rest,  
That is the rest."_

_While she…_

His throat was tight. His eyes burned.

_Her brother… drinking and singing…while she…_

_While she ---_

…_was dead._

_And there had been nothing he could do._

He put down the empty mug.

**oooOooo**

Ten pints of ale were not enough to brighten Elentar's outlook on this part of the universe in any way. What he needed was _schnapps_, and lots of it. To forget where he was just for a few hours. Drugs would be better, but drugs were even more expensive. Checking the contents of his pockets, Elentar arrived miserably at the conclusion that he would probably not even be able to acquire enough hard liquor to make any difference where his state of consciousness was concerned.

He leaned against the rear wall of the pub and allowed himself to sag down to the ground. "Damn!" he muttered. "I should have drowned when I could."

But he had not drowned, not in his own world, nor in this world.

He sat on the icy stones and stared off into the twilight, willing himself not to think and not to remember. It was cold. There was even a hint of frost in the air. Not a good sign for the farmers, he mused. And not a good omen for him, who had planned to work as a farmhand again this year. But in spite of the cold, he did not even bother to pull his threadbare cloak closer around his body. The fabric was so thin by now that it would not make any difference. A passer-by stopped for a moment, frowning at Elentar, then chucked a copper penny at his feet and moved on. Elentar picked up the penny. One penny closer to inebriation and cherished moments of forgetting. Obviously he already looked like a beggar. Maybe he should have a stab at working as a professional mendicant? He knew where to find the chief of Vienna's beggars well enough. But so far something had always kept him from taking this final step towards… towards what? It was not as if he had any status he could lose. "But mother wouldn't approve," he whispered, the sound of his voice a far-away hiss in the darkening twilight.

Suddenly a voice issued from inside the pub. It was a male voice, not blessed with the range of a professional singer, but with a beauty and precision that was well beyond that of any singing voice that Elentar had encountered in this world so far. The singer grated his voice deliberately, but he also slurred the words. That man was drunk. Very drunk. Elentar sighed with envy, before the words registered with him and he flinched as if struck by a whip.

_"O, my dear friend Augustin,  
Augustin, Augustin,  
O, my dear friend Augustin,  
I just can't win!"_

_Why did this song have to survive, if his Katharina had not? Why did the world remember the drunken song of her good-for-nothing brother, and only he was left to remember her sweet smile? Her gentle demeanour? Her hopes for children and a life… together with him?_

The door was thrust open, and a medium sized man with the slender figure of someone who does not have to do bodily labour for a living, stumbled down two of the three stairs. His powdered wig was askew, the laces of his trousers halfway undone. He stared blearily at Elentar for a moment, then he attempted a bow that almost sent him flying down the last stair.

"_Monsieur,_ I am very sorry. But I am drunk. And now, if you will excuse me." The man turned almost gracefully to the other side of the stair and vomited copiously, clinging to the stair rail. Once he was finished, he burped nosily and coughed a little.

"Ah, that's better." He turned to Elentar again and gave him a surprisingly sweet smile. "And now for a little relief of another kind. You will pardon me, _monsieur_. I know – I am a pig. But I can't help it, I was born that way." He stepped down the last stair and stalked around to the other side of the stair, moving as if he was walking on raw eggs. Elentar watched him, involuntarily fascinated. The man's clothing was made of good, thick fabric, if slightly foppish in style. He wore silk stockings that once must have been white. One of them was coming loose, and wriggling like a little lad's socks around his right leg.

He carefully walked around the mess he'd made. Then he completely undid the laces of his trousers and began to piss against the wall. Elentar stared. There was a perfectly convenient outhouse in the courtyard of the tavern for customers. Taking a leak in the gutter was not at all necessary. While he was pissing, the strange gentleman (for no matter what else he was besides drunk and perhaps crazy, he certainly was a gentleman with this charming and graceful demeanour) began to sing again.

_"Money's gone, girlfriend's gone,  
I just can't win, Augustin!  
O, my dear friend Augustin,  
I just can't win!"_

Once he was finished, he fumbled at his fly, trying to tie the laces back up. Just for a moment, he stopped singing, humming wordlessly instead, and a completely different tune. A tune that sounded strangely harmonious for a mindless melody accompanying the efforts of a drunkard to get more or less decent again. Finally the man was content with his efforts, or gave up the organization of his laces as a lost cause. Giving the steaming lake created by his pee a wide berth, he returned to where Elentar was sitting.

"_Mon ami_, you look as if the world's a cruel place. I sympathize. What's more – I agree. _Homo proponit, Deus disponit_, as my father likes to say. Man proposes, God disposes. What you need to do, is get drunk enough to forget your sorrows." He stopped for a moment and, with a quite distant and otherworldly expression on his face started humming again. This time the melody was even clearer than before, and Elentar felt a curious twinge in his heart. Almost as if he was hearing the language of his home world again, the beloved sounds of Sindarin the way his mother had spoken the language.

The humming broke off, and Elentar found himself under the scrutiny of suddenly surprising sharp and bright eyes.

"You look lonely," the stranger said matter-of-factly. "And if I may be so bold as to guess… you are lacking the funds to seek the relief of your sorrows that I have already enjoyed tonight." The man gave Elentar a wry smile and made to sit down next to him. "May I, _monsieur_? The view seems to be quite appealing from where you are sitting."

"Of course… _monsieur…_" Elentar was not yet quite adept at the various forms of politeness of the many languages he had encountered in this world so far.

"Ahh," The man settled down on Elentar's right, affecting a content sigh. "Quite, quite."

For a while they sat side by side, with the man humming and staring into the gloaming as if he was seeing quite another world there than anyone else. Elentar wondered if it was appropriate to inquire for the name of his new companion. Suddenly, the humming stopped again. "Alas, 'tis not as if I had funds to squander on drinking myself, but it's a cheerful way of squandering if squandering is what is one's nature. Forgive me though, _monsieur_, for I have been terribly impolite. Taking a seat next to you in such a familiar manner without even introducing myself. But that, if nothing else, can be quite easily remedied." The man tried to pat his wig in place (a wasted effort) and inclining his head politely to Elentar.

"I'm Mozart. _Joannes Chrysostomus Wolfgangus Theophilus_. They call me _Amadé_. I actually prefer Wolfgang. 'Tis the best name of the lot – for at the moment God does not seem to have great love for me, and my lifestyle is ill suited for the name of saints. It's a pleasure to meet you."

"I am Elentar," Elentar said, just a little overwhelmed.

"Elentar?" Mozart asked. "What does that mean?"

Then he proceeded to drunkenly sing-song, _"e-len-taar-ellen-tar-e-leeeen-taaar-el-lellelleenntaar"_. Elentar frowned and did not reply. This Wolfgangus Mozart was certainly a strange man. Stopping as suddenly with his singing as he had done before with his humming, Mozart repeated his question.

"No surname? You are unfettered by the grisly bounds of familial connections and the burden of keeping a good name unsoiled by your honest opinions? Why, your are a most lucky man, _mon ami!_ But what does it mean, your name? For I am sure it has a meaning: it sounds like music in my ears. Not that this is so surprising, for everything sounds like music in my ears – which is not as bad as it may sound, for I am, indeed, a musician, and it is my profession to have music in my ears. So what does this mean, this 'E – len – tar'?"

"It means…" Elentar blinked. Again, this bright look… the man was not half as drunk as he pretended to be. For some bizarre reason Mozart wanted to talk to him. Maybe an artist's quirky ways? He realized that Mozart was also not one to let go easily of anything that had caught his interest and curiosity.

"It means 'king of the stars'," Elentar said resignedly.

"Oh," sighed the musician, and started humming again. "How does it happen that a king of the stars is a beggar in Vienna?"

Then he grinned at Elentar. "_Mon ami_, I sense delightful tales and many melodies. Let's get drunk together. Let's be friends. For I tell you, I need a friend right now. Let's waste what funds I have left and get wasted with what I have!"

He got to his feet and extended a hand to Elentar. For a moment Elentar stared at the hand. It had been years since the last time anyone had touched him. But the melodies that seemed to follow this man, this Mozart, wherever he went, touched more than his hand – they touched his heart. The first faint echo of the Ainulindalë he had heard in this world. He reached out and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet.

"I don't get drunk easily," he replied in warning.

"Don't worry," Mozart replied. "I suffer from no such difficulties. And now come with me, I know where there's the best schnapps to be had in all of Vienna."

He put his arm around Elentar and led him off down the street, leaving a pool of stale urine and a heap of vomit behind them. Once they were around the next corner, he started singing again,

_"Coat is gone, staff is gone,  
Augustin's on his bum.  
O, my dear friend Augustin,  
I just can't win!"_

Elentar flinched again, as if he wanted to duck away from the memories conjured up by words and melody. But he allowed himself to be led away. There was something to this Mozart that was quite irresistible – and he had no other plans for the night anyway.

**oooOooo**

"He simply said to me _'May he leave, I don't need him!'_. He dismissed me with a kick in the seat of my pants." In illustration Mozart rose from his seat and slapped himself firmly on his behind, almost propelling himself into his glass. Only a quick lunge of Elentar saved the precious bottle. The schnapps was strong, but not strong enough. It would not make Elentar drunk enough to forget who he was, what he was, and where he came from. But the company of his new friend – vulgar, charming, noisy – accomplished what this world's weak brews could not.

"Count Hieronymus von Colloredo, _PSHAW!_ A monkey with a title, that's what he is. Named for a saint and translator, and couldn't translate the easiest score into music. And like a monkey he kept _me_. A kept musician." Mozart laughed, but it was a bitter laugh. "Trained me to do cartwheels for him and to sit and beg whenever His Illustrious Highness pleases… Damn, what a fool I was that I thought I could actually work for His Snobbishness." He downed another glass. "Ah, it may be for the best: for now I am released of his bonds, no longer a bond servant am I, and this city –" he smacked his lips, "– this city, Elentar, it appeals to me. I shall settle down here. And I shall make music here!" A few measures of humming interrupted his speech. "Music! And I shall become famous here! And rich! Ah, my friend, let's drink to the good times that are to come!"

Elentar smiled in spite of himself and raised his glass in return. He should find out where Mozart's lodgings were, so that he could get the musician home safely once he had collapsed. For that was Mozart's declared goal of the night – get as drunk as possible and forget the ignominy of being thrown out of the count's service like a simple servant.

And there was no doubt in Elentar's mind that Mozart would succeed with this plan at least: there was method to the man's madness.

**oooOooo**

There was less method to Mozart's way of making money with his music.

The summer had turned hot, and the wine had failed almost completely, with the grapes drying to raisins on the vines. Nevertheless it was pleasant to sit on the terrace of this tavern outside of Vienna and enjoy the warm summer evening. The air was thick with the scent of hay and hot earth. And though it was real wine and not young, sprightly _Heuriger _in their goblets, the wine was good and the night tasted sweet.

"Making you a servant at the estate of His Illustriousness was the best joke I ever played on someone," Mozart elaborated. "So you did as I asked and sang the new song right outside his window?"

Elentar grinned. He had done as Mozart had asked him. And why not? It was a great bawdy tune, and just the kind of song you would expect a stable hand to sing. It did not hurt that it was right below the bedroom window of His Illustrious Highness, Count Hieronymus von Colloredo. Though – being just the kind of song that had (among other things) led to Mozart's dismissal by the count a few months earlier – it could safely be said that it did hurt the count's ears and did nothing for his mood. If Elentar had not been the best groom His Highness had ever had, if His Highness had not had such a soft spot for his beautiful horses, no doubt Elentar would have been dismissed after a few weeks with an even heftier kick in the seats of his pants than the one Mozart had received. But as the count loved his horses, and as Elentar was the best man to take care of those horses that the count had ever had in his service, Elentar stayed – and the count acquired a habit of throwing his windows shut with a bang and a crash each morning.

"I did sing that song," Elentar said. "You know I like it. Though – I don't think my overlord shares my taste in music. His visage was quite given to scowling as he took his horse from me this morning."

Mozart succumbed to a wheezing fit of laughter. A practical joker, he enjoyed nothing so much at the moment as composing bawdy songs and making Elentar sing them within the count's hearing.

"Ah, _mon ami_," Mozart sighed happily. "How glorious! And your singing voice is so much better than mine! I really have to come up with another little ditty-hitty-titty-tit-tit-titty…" He chuckled at the rhyme.

Suddenly, however, his smile vanished, and the happy sounds of another dirty tune turned into something else. Elentar was used to these mood swings by now. His friend seemed to be filled with music to the brim. Had the aspect of a full goblet of wine and a joke shared with his companion inspired a bawdy song one minute, a glance at the overcast sky, at a flower, or the sound of a bird could provoke the melody of a profound aria, or the soft swaying score of a concert in the next.

"You are still lonely, _mon ami_," Mozart said abruptly, turning his attention to Elentar from wherever he had been a moment ago. "I can see it in your beautiful grey eyes. There is a great sorrow to you, as great as that mystery you insist keeping from me. No, no – keep it, keep it. Every man has secrets. Some that he wants, some that he doesn't. Ah, loneliness…" He sipped at his wine. "I know the taste of loneliness well. Friends and understanding souls are few and far between. Yet… somehow it is from loneliness, a separateness of the soul, if you will, that I draw my inspiration."

Elentar poured more wine and settled down to listen. There was nothing he could say about this. He was not an artist or a musician, in spite of his clear voice and keen perception of rhythm.

Mozart started humming again, but in a low voice, just under his breath.

"I read a poem the other day… by Johann Timotheus Hermes. About loneliness, that was. Loneliness as a refuge and solace." He raised his glass to Elentar. "It seems to me that it's a poem to fit you, my friend. You find your home in your loneliness. One day, though, you may find that loneliness is not enough in life." Mozart fell silent again, humming almost noiselessly. Elentar sucked his breath, his shoulders tense. So much attention on his person made him uncomfortable. And besides, what else was there for him in this world?

He had tried the ocean. Back in his own world and in his own time, being a sailor had been closest to being happy that he had ever come, with the rough, taciturn companionship found among the crews of sailing vessels, and the echo of the Ainulindalë singing in the waves… _Here, however…_ Elentar shuddered. There was no song of creation in this world. Or at least, it was not in this world the way it was – had been – in his world. The magic, the very matter of this world was alien to him, and the oceans were only bodies of water with waves and fish and storms, and no song, no song. Leaving seas and ships behind, Elentar had made his way as far inland as he could. He could live without the Ainulindalë. He _had_ to. It had been his choice; and there was no going back on it. But he could not bear listening to the seas, and hearing only waves and wind.

"One day, though, you will need something else!" Mozart interrupted his dark thoughts, by cheerily thumping his goblet on the table. "Elentar, I met a girl."

A light shone in Mozart's eyes. "Nay – forgive me for this blunder! I met a woman, and I tell you, she is the woman of my heart – and my life. Her name is Constanze. You will have to meet her. You will love her!" He broke off, took another swig of wine. "And my father will hate her," he continued morosely.

"I would be delighted to meet the woman who makes your eyes shine like that," Elentar put in, feeling the sting of loneliness a little more acute than before.

"Oh!" Mozart cried, "She does not only make my eyes shine! She makes the world shine! She is – my sunshine!" Again he stopped talking, trilling a few measures of an excited little song. Then the song changed again, to a more measured pace.

"There! We were talking about loneliness. I shall make a song for you, a song to loneliness. And it shall remind you of me forever."

"Why do you want to give me a song?" Elentar was perplexed.

"Because," Mozart said, "you are one of the few people I have encountered in my life, who understand the magic of music and its power. You understand every word I say to you about music, no matter if it's a ditty to annoy His Illustriousness, a song to bring a poem to life, or a symphony. There's music inside you, too. One day, I am sure of it, you will discover its power. The powerful magic of music!" He broke off and rolled his eyes, laughing off the pathos of his words. "And," he added, a warm smile on his face, "because you are a friend, mon ami, and although I cannot heal your loneliness, I can give you a song for it. So that's what I will do."

**oooOooo**

It was an icy winter, the winter of 1791. The gravediggers had had a hard time of loosening enough soil to be able to cover the new body in the communal grave of the first precinct in the cemetery of St Marx.

"A miserable day for being buried," one of them muttered, throwing another shovel of half-frozen earth down into the grave.

"Indeed," the other gravedigger agreed, "The poor widow, could you see how cold she was? Shivering all over!"

"Might be the grievin', too," the first one suggested. "It gets right bodily to some of them, I knew one widow, burly as they come –"

"Oh, stop it, I know all yer tales," the second one grumbled. "D'ye know who he was? I over'eard how he was given his last blessing in the chapel of St Stephen yester eve, so I don' see no reason for there being such a populace scurrying to a cheap grave on such a cold day."

"Aye," the first man agreed. "What with the cold, I shoulda' thunk they'd be right and content with bidding their farewells in the church, I would. Where there's warmer and the way to the pub's not quite as far."

He scooped up the next shovel of dirt. "But aye, I happen to know who he was. A composer that's what he was, a musician of sorts. Must have been quite famous a few years ago. Of the name of Mozart, Wolfgang Amadé. That's why the crowd and all."

"Not as famous as he used to be then," the second man commented. "Or he's wasted his famous money, getting put into a common grave that way."

"Yep," said the first, surveying the result of their work. Not a bit of the white shroud peeked through the dark heap of earth anymore. "Had he been smart, he'd be laid out in one of those." He jerked his elbow at the mausoleums of the rich and the nobility that lined the "good" side of the graveyard. "But famous doesn' equal smart, obviously."

The other man nodded and shouldered his shovel. "We're done. Let's go."

Without another glance at the grave, they turned around and hurried away, eager to get back into the warmth and share a mug of mulled wine or some spirits to drive the cold out of their bones.

Only when they were safely out of sight, Elentar stepped out of the shadows of a nearby mausoleum and walked to the grave.

There was not much there. A large square hole in the ground, secured by boards and planks, frozen, rugged heaps of old earth covering an indiscernible number of dead bodies, and a new, irregular heap of cold, dark earth in left-hand corner at the front of the grave. It was a communal grave like many others in this year of 1791, as clean and orderly as the communal laws demanded. There should have been a wooden marker somewhere, but somehow it had been forgotten or left off from the start - probably because the earth was too hard with the winter's cold to hammer a marker's post into the ground. And it was only a common grave, so it was not really vital to have a proper marker for it. The surviving loved ones of the dead knew where it was, after all. And once they were dead, what interest could posterity have in where a commoner had been laid to rest? It was the marble tombs of lords and rulers that ensuing ages would be looking for, not the grave of a musician whose fame had already been on the decline.

Elentar stood at the grave and stared at the small, longish heap of earth down below. He did not shiver or bother to pull his threadbare cloak closer around his body. He never did that. Because it would not help.

"So many songs, my friend," he whispered, "remain unsung now that you are gone. I wonder what they'll think of you, three hundred years from now, what they'll remember of you. For that I know – they will remember you. Marker or no marker." He looked around the gravesite searchingly, but there was really nothing available that could be turned even into a makeshift marker. "Will they remember your symphonies and your operas? Or the bawdy hitty-titty-ditties you enjoyed so much, I wonder." Elentar sighed, his breath a cloud of white in the gathering twilight. "Probably the symphonies. Not even your beloved Constanze cared overmuch for your favourite tunes."

He fell silent, staring down at what remained of a life lived and loved in this strange world. A life filled with the song of creation.

Now Elentar did shiver, the grief getting to him after all, just like the gravedigger had put it. He dashed impatiently at his burning eyes and fumbled in his coat pocket. He had stolen the bloom of a white lily from the hothouse of the count.

A bit worse for wear with cold and being carried in a cloak pocket, the lily was already wilting. But it was still an elegant flower, and Elentar knew that humans brought flowers to the graves of their friends and loved ones.

"Whoever created this world, wherever the Timeless Halls are for your people, I hope that you are there now, and that the music is good."

Elentar threw the blossom into the grave and quickly turned away, hurrying down along the path towards the gate of the cemetery.

In his mind echoed a verse of a song, a silly song, a song that marked the first love and the first friendship he had had in this world:

_"Augustin, Augustin,  
Lay down in your coffin!  
O, my dear friend Augustin,  
I just can't win!"_

**oooOooo**

**Please see my forum for copious A/N about this chapter.**


	14. Another Story

**14. Another Story**

_"O, my dear friend Augustin," _Mina repeated, her voice hoarse. She looked from the curling bit of old newspaper to the pale face of…

…the pale face of…

She swallowed, but the lump in her throat stayed where it was, as her brain refused to process the story she had just been told.

…Elentar Elrohirion.

Elentar, king of the stars, son of Elrohir.  
_Peredhel._  
Half-elven.

Travelling across time _and _space…

"I know this is hard to believe," he said. There was a hint of darkness in his eyes that told her he was already regretting his spontaneous confession.

And what a confession! She had expected some kind of explanation for his reaction to that newspaper clipping. She had _not_ expected him to tell her the story of his whole life. And no one could have expected _that_ story.

She felt dazed.

"But I swear, Mina, it's the truth! Every word I said. It's true. It's my story. My life."

He sounded as if he himself sometimes had doubts about that. About his very existence. There was a touch of panic to his voice, a hint of shaking: am I real? _Am I?_

"Look, I can prove it," he said, a little too quickly, a little too painfully. He turned his head to the left and lowered it slightly, with his right hand he grabbed his hair, the dark mess of sheltering dread locks, and swept it back and upwards, revealing a smooth, sculpted neck, almost chiselled muscles and veins... and a beautifully pointed ear.

This was definitely the wrong moment for her heart to speed up and her insides to liquefy with a wash of desire. She cleared her throat.

"I – uh – I saw your ear this morning," she replied at last, her mind not really registering what she was saying. Sudden heat suffused her cheeks.

"The towel," she stammered, feeling like an idiot, "it had, it was – it did not cover the ear."

He frowned at her. It was obviously not the reaction he had expected. Mina sucked her lips into her mouth and bit down on them. It was not the kind of reaction he deserved. He had, without a moment's notice, revealed the story of his life to her. And all she did was stare at his ear. She blinked, once more trying to make sense of what he told her, rubbing her forehead in an effort to clear her head.

"You don't believe me." He drew back. Instinctively she reached out for him. Her fingertips touched the smooth pliable tissue of the ear. Elentar flinched as if she had struck him, even as she pulled back.

"I'm sorry," she said, flustered.

He got to his feet. "I think I'd better go now."

He turned around without looking at her.

"No! No! You misunderstood!" She jumped to her feet. "Elentar, wait! I do believe you! Really, I do! This, this – your story, it's just, it's –" She grabbed for his arm and turned him around so that he faced her. Could an arm feel _spicy_ to the touch? But whatever it was, the sensation was enough to make her skin tingle.

"– it's just that's a bit much to wrap my mind around. Especially… so, well, it's not the kind of story I expected to hear," she concluded lamely. He did not relax under her touch, but he also did not try to pull away.

"I do believe you," she repeated.

He stared at her, a dubious, wary expression in his face. "Why?"

Mina looked back at him, her heart racing, as her mind put together the pieces of quite another puzzle.

"It's a long story," she said at last. "And I think you should read it yourself."

"A story?" He frowned.

She rolled her eyes at him in exaggerated exasperation. Somehow that helped; the tension in her body lessened just a little, enough to let her breathe more deeply.

"Yes," she repeated. "A story."

She led the way to the living room and went to the antique chest of drawers to the left of the front window. She knelt down in front of it, hesitating with her hands on the silver handles of the bottom drawer.

"My uncle – the brother of my father – is a lawyer in Bavaria, in Erlangen. A university town near Nürnberg."

Mina turned to the side, so she could glance at Elentar. He had followed her, but kept a distance. His confession seemed to have overwhelmed him as much as it had her. It was strange, but now that she knew his story, the distance between them was even wider than before. It's always a delicate balance with him, she mused. Now I have to share a secret with him, so we get back on even footing. Good thing that I have such a secret.

Her stomach did a weird flip. Before Elentar had told her his story, the secret had not been much of a secret; more like an oddity better kept hidden in the bottom-most drawer of the cupboard and not thought about much. She exhaled shakily.

"He married a single mother. A very… eccentric woman. He met her working on a case. She was a client. She wanted to name her daughter 'Lothíriel', but German law is kind of unimaginative where names are concerned."

It was obvious that Elentar had no idea what she was talking about.

"It's a name from 'The Lord of the Rings'," Mina explained. Somehow this situation felt more than just slightly surreal. "She married Éomer – the king of Rohan – at the beginning of the Third Age."

Elentar frowned at her. As if he still did not really believe that the Middle-earth of that book and those movies was his Arda.

"My uncle won the law-suit about the name," Mina went on. "The child was called 'Lothíriel', and he married her mother." Now the tricky part. "Lothíriel grew up and studied law. We used to visit them once a year. Then… in the summer two years ago… she vanished. She told everyone she went on a hiking holiday or something, right before the exams. But she never came back."

"And what has that to do with…?"

"With you? Nothing. At least not at first glance." Mina turned around completely now, facing Elentar. "I believed that maybe she ran away, or was the victim of a crime. They never found out what happened to her. Then… last summer… her mother called me. She said she was in Berlin, and she had to meet me. She needed me to translate some Sindarin."

Mina had not believed a word of what her uncle's wife had told her. Maybe because she would have liked to believe it so very much. She shook her head and briskly opened the drawer. What she pulled out of it, was a heavy package of neatly copied pages.

"Here," Mina said and held the package out to Elentar. "Read that. My aunt told me that she got a package in the mail one day. In the regular German mail. A wooden chest that contained a leather-bound book, a diary, among other things. Lothíriel's diary. She…" Mina stared at Elentar. Somewhere underneath those dreadlocks pointy ears were hidden… Somewhere behind those dark eyes, that young face… possibly, possibly a life of many hundred years lay hidden.

"She claims that she travelled to Middle-earth."

Elentar's eyebrows shot up, disbelief plainly visible on his face.

The absurdity of the scene did not escape her; after telling _her_ that he hailed from another world and that the native language of his father was Sindarin, _he_ could not believe that someone from _this_ world had ended up in _his _world.

Mina gave Elentar a wry smile. "I did not believe the story either. I thought it was some elaborate fantasy, something my aunt had made up, so she had something to cling to, when she really thought that her daughter was dead."

"But?"

"The mistakes in the Sindarin." Mina felt her cheeks flush with heat again, remembering how Elentar had tried to improve her accent. "There are some pages that look like exercises in Sindarin. The mistakes… they feel very real."

He just stared at her. Mina shook her head at him. She would not argue with him about this story. She simply shoved the package into his hands.

"Read it. I'll go and make another pot of tea. I need some."

_And a bottle of hard liquor…_she wanted to add, but did not – it was not precisely true, and she had the feeling that it would not help anyway with whatever she was getting involved in here.

**oooOooo**

_"I am a freak. I have to admit it. I just am.  
Perhaps I could not help myself.  
After all, it's in my name._

_My name is Lothíriel._

_It's a name from a book, and not just any book. It's from "The Lord of the Rings". Somewhere in its various appendices and additional volumes, there is a Lothíriel in there. She is supposed to be a ranger, a female Dúnadan and daughter of Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth, who married King Éomer of Rohan in 3020 of the Third Age…"_

Elentar stared at the page. It was a photocopied page, but it looked as if it was the copy of a piece of parchment, not the thin, even wood-pulp paper that was used here and now, but something thicker, smoother. And whoever had written this had used a quill – and had not been familiar with using one. The writing was unsteady, and there were lots of ink spots and smudges.

From the kitchen he heard the sound of the electric kettle and Mina's steps, pacing nervously back and forth, in an unsteady, unsettled rhythm.

_"But?"_

_"The mistakes in her Sindarin..."_

The look on Mina's face! He did not have to be a mind reader to know what she had been thinking. What about her own mistakes in Sindarin? He tried to shake off the feeling of warmth that was creeping over him at the thought. It had been much too good to hear his father's tongue again. And Mina's careful, halting, sometimes stilted pronunciation had something very endearing.

Much too endearing.

He looked back at the page in front of him.

_"Read it. I'll go and make another pot of tea. I need some."_

_"I was sure that finally I would live up to my name: Lothíriel, ranger, Dúnadan; finally free! Finally on the road to her destiny!_

_If only I had known…"_

**oooOooo**

Mina paced back and forth in the kitchen while the water heated up in the electric kettle. She got the teapot ready. She put out mugs. Sugar. Milk. Honey. Who used honey with Darjeeling? She put the honey away again.

_"O, my dear friend Augustin."_

What if everything he said was true? She stopped in her tracks, her thoughts going to the neat package of copied pages. What if everything _she_ said was true, too?

She started pacing again. But he was born in the Fourth Age. He had given the year of his birth with 325 of the Fourth Age. She put down her hands on the sideboard to steady herself.

If he had been born in 325 – and this woman, this Jarro McCourt – the one who had died here – and Lothíriel – she would have been dead for a long time when Elentar had been born – yet, if everything was true, if this was indeed her story, if this package had reached Lothíriel's mother 2004 – 2004, when Elentar and his mother had been alive in the same world…

The kettle clicked noisily. Mina jumped, her heart racing. How she needed some tea right now! Her hand was shaking as she poured the water into the pot.

"I'm going crazy, running around in circles in my mind – and in my kitchen," she muttered to herself and sat down, only to jump up again at once to remove the sieve with the tea-leaves from the pot, to get out a package of biscuits and to circle her small kitchen once more. She forced herself to sit down again and poured herself a cup of tea.

A tiny crumb of tealeaf floated in circles in her cup.

That's exactly how she felt, Mina reflected, a tiny crumb of something, caught up in something else, something huge and hot and unfathomable. _Hot…_ she frowned at her tea. She should be having a screaming fit or perhaps be plotting how to get this homeless tramp and elf back where he belonged. She should not be thinking about how smoothly sculpted his neck looked, and the perfect angle of his jawbones… or the delicious point of his ear.

She blinked at her tea. And of course, she should not believe him. It was without doubt, the perfect cover story to exploit a woman who was living alone, obviously into fantasy and in need of male company. She took an experimental sip of tea. Tea always steadied her nerves, for some reason. It was a ridiculous story, of course. An elf. From Arda.

_From Arda…_

She frowned. _She_ had said "Middle-earth". _He_ had said "Arda". And "Arda" was _not _mentioned in "The Lord of the Rings" at all, her scholar's brain amended at once. It was a word from "The Silmarillion", from "Unfinished Tales". Elentar had described Esgaroth, Pelargir and Umbar so vividly that she had felt she could see those places with her own eyes: the white villa of his parents in Esgaroth, the dirty docks and the noisy fish market in Pelargir, the scent of spices and dust in Umbar. Places she associated more with "The Hobbit", "The Lord of the Rings", maybe the appendices of "The Lord of the Rings". And yet, when she had mentioned the name 'Lothíriel', it had not meant anything to him. Just as the randomly dropped name of a queen from the 16th century did not mean much to her. In fact, Elentar did not really seem to know "The Lord of the Rings" at all, she realized. Yet he knew names and places that only someone with a deep and intimate knowledge of Tolkien's works would know. Or someone who was one hundred percent certifiable.

But even that did not explain the Sindarin.

His, or, Mina contemplated, _hers_. Those pages with what looked like language exercises. Very much like the exercises her students were doing… Exercises in a language that did not really exist at all. But of course, there were others in _this_ world who played around with Sindarin; many others. Lothíriel could be sitting comfortably somewhere in America, trying to keep her mother and father from looking for her by making up this crazy story.

But wouldn't a law student come up with a more believable story?

And that did not explain the thing with Elentar's accent.

Mina refilled her cup.

He could lie. She could lie. She _herself _could be hallucinating and all of this was nothing but a dream. Or… she put down the cup again, pondering a last alternative.

Or all of this could be true.

Her scholar's mind was devious. Assuming for a moment, her thoughts went, just for the argument's sake, that all of this was true, both Lothíriel's story and Elentar's story.

_What did that mean?_

Mina sucked her lips into her mouth thoughtfully. For one thing, she thought, it meant that the careful theories of some avant-garde physicists about parallel worlds or dimensions were not exactly theories. And – she vaguely remembered something about Einstein she had learned many years ago at school – it meant that time was indeed relative, though relative in a way that Einstein had probably not foreseen. Mina reached for the pad she used for making shopping lists.

_Earth_, she wrote. _2003._ Lothíriel vanishes. _2004._ Jarro McCourt dies. Package reaches Lothíriel's mother. _Around_ _1650._ Elentar washed ashore near Le Havre.

_Middle-earth._ _Third Age._ Lothíriel reaches Middle-earth. _Fourth Age._ Jarro McCourt reaches Middle-earth. _325._ Elentar is born. _397_ – Elentar leaves Middle-earth.

"And where did Tolkien come from?" Mina muttered, drawing lines around the names and connecting them with arrows. Then she looked up and stared at the window. Outside, it was a dreary day in February, cold, rainy and wet. Dismal.

"Shit," Mina told the window, her eyes following the raindrops running down the windowpane, without really seeing them at all.

"Shit," she repeated softly. "I'm really starting to believe this."

**oooOooo**

_"And then I was in her arms, and she was in my arms, and Mel and Númendil were there, too, and the four of us were embracing each other and kissing each other and laughing and crying all at the same time._

_It was over. It was really, truly over._

_I whispered meaningless endearments. I cried, and I smiled. _

_All at the same time. _

_It was over. My world was saved."_

Elentar stared at the page. He was a quick reader, and much to his surprise he had found himself drawn easily into this strange story. It read like a fairy tale, and yet… He thumbed back to the pages with Sindarin. Those pages looked as if they had been filled at a later date. The writing was much clearer, as if the writer was more at ease using a quill when those exercises had been written. It looked almost as if the pages had been left blank by mistake initially, and had been used for a different purpose than the rest of this – journal? – later on, as if the owner had wanted to save the space. _Because good parchment was expensive?_

In an eerie flashback he felt as if he heard the voice of his father, coming back to him through time and space. For once it was not a memory about him being chided by his father for yet another mistake or mischief. This memory was about his father admonishing his students, the sons of prosperous merchants and influential politicians to be careful with their parchment. "Waste not, want not."

Elentar stared at the Sindarin, tidily filling about five pages with grammar and spelling exercises. He read them again. And again. They looked very much like the language exercises his father had made him do. Growing up, Elentar had spoken mostly Westron. Although they had spoken Sindarin at home, there had been times when Elentar had had to work on the language. And his father had made sure that he did. Elentar stared at the pages before him. For some reason he felt as if he could hear not just any teacher's voice whispering to him across a maybe immeasurable distance of time and space. It felt as if it was his father's voice that was speaking in those exercises. Elentar shuddered and carefully stacked the pages together again.

What if it was true?

What if all of this unbelievable story was true?

After all, _his_ story was true. His _mother's_ story was true.

He clenched his hands into fists. He had never realized before from just how far away she might have come. Although she had told him when he had asked about visiting his grandparents as a small child.

_"I come from far away, honey. As far away as Aman. You can't travel there. That is why we cannot visit your grandparents. It is too far away."_

Why had he never suspected before that it was _this_ world she had been talking about? "As far away as Aman" – a place that was not _in_ Arda at all! He should have realized! He could have found his mother! He could have talked to her!

And then what? asked the saner part of his mind. He wanted to pick up the scrap of newspaper again and look at the face that was so painfully familiar, yet unfamiliar at the same time. She had been so young when she had died here. More than ten years younger than Mina was, he guessed. A young woman, barely an adult. What could he have told her?

_"I am your son, your son from the future, and another world, a son who will bring you nothing but sorrow."_

He winced.

No. There was nothing he could have told her. And now it was too late anyway. Somehow everything in his life seemed to happen either too soon or too late, but never at the right time.

And now what?

He sat and stared at the pile of photocopied pages. For the first time since he had come to this world, he had told someone the truth about himself.

No, he corrected himself mentally. For the first time since he had left Esgaroth he had told someone the truth about himself.

He slowly rose from his chair and walked towards the door. He reached the door and found himself standing right in front of Mina. Her face was strangely calm, but there was a fire in her eyes that had not been there before.

He felt strangely weak-kneed. There was an unspoken question hanging in the air between them.

He swallowed dryly.

And just as she started to speak, so did he:

"I believe you," they said in unison.

They broke off and stared at each other.

"And now what?" Mina asked.

**oooOooo**

**Please look at my forums to read the "Author's Notes" for this chapter. Feel free to leave a comment or post to my forums! **


	15. Now what?

**15. Now what?**

He stared at her, uncomprehending.

"Well," Mina said slowly. "Both, Lothíriel and Jar- your mother, found a way to Middle-earth. And the… sisters of time, was it? They sent you here. Gandalf…"

Gandalf… a wily wizard, if ever there was one. Mina had always liked the sense of humour that showed up in those fireworks and certain scenes in "The Hobbit". If he was real, she could believe that he would come here and buy his pipes at Vauen, the company that made the pipes which had been used in the "Lord of the Rings" movies, just for the hell of it.

Elentar frowned at her.

"Gandalf," Mina continued blithely, "obviously can pass between both worlds. Therefore, what we know is this: people – and wizards – can get from here to there, and back. So… we should be able to get you back where you belong."

He did not say anything; he just looked at her, thunderstruck. And… _hurt._ Too late Mina realized that her assumption that he did not belong here, but that he had to want to get back there, did not necessarily have to be accurate. Indeed, now that she thought back to his story, and the way he had told it, the most striking fact about his story had been, how he had never really belonged anywhere at all.

And still he did not say anything. The silence between them lengthened, growing uncomfortable, driving embarrassed heat into Mina's cheeks.

"How about another pot of tea?" she suggested finally, clinging to her grandmother's wisdom as a last resort of rescuing a conversation that was turning into a black hole of silence.

"Okay," was all Elentar said.

Mina swallowed and nodded, turning back to the kitchen. Elentar followed her.

She filled the electric kettle with fresh water.

"Herbal or regular? Or Earl Grey?"

"Herbal will be fine."

She pulled out a soothing _rooibush _mixture. She certainly needed that now. There were moments when she regretted that she had never acquired a real taste for whisky.

"I'm sorry," Elentar said suddenly. "I was overwhelmed by your idea. That was a bit… much. All of that." He gestured towards the living room, where the package with Lothíriel's copied diary still sat on the table.

Mina got out fresh cups, and this time, the honey. Then there was nothing to keep her from looking at Elentar again. She backed away to the window, leaning against the radiator. Then she did look at him. She looked at that young face, that clear-cut bone structure, the mess of dark dreadlocks. Those amazing silvery-grey eyes.

She swallowed hard. She would like to see those ears again. Not an appropriate thought. Had it been less than appropriate to feel attracted to a homeless stranger, now it was out of the question.

"I am sorry," she mumbled. "I did not think."

The water started bubbling, then the kettle switched off with a click that was much too loud. Mina carefully poured the water over the sieve, grateful that she did not have to face Elentar. He had not wanted her pity and barely accepted her help, when she had thought him to be nothing but a tramp. Somehow she had the feeling that now, with her knowing who he really was, he would be even more touchy about any offer to help him.

But he had appreciated honesty.

She scooped the sieve with the tea out of the pot and set it down in the sink. "Tea's ready," she said, "Have a seat. Do you want some cookies?"

She put the tea on the table and simply took down the cookie tin, another moment of respite. When she sat down, Elentar had already poured the tea for both of them. He sat with the back to the wall, turning his profile to her. Not a good sign if there was anything to the so-called secrets of body language. She wanted to sigh, but that would not help with him at all.

"I'm sorry, Elentar. From what you told me about yourself, I simply assumed that you are not really happy here. I jumped to the conclusion that you would want to get back to your – to Middle-earth." She looked at him. He still did not look at her, but he shifted his position almost imperceptibly. As if he relaxed a bit, just a tiny, little bit.

"It was not appropriate. I'm sorry."

He released his breath in a sigh and turned around slowly. He picked up the teacup, curling both hands around the mug as if he needed something to hide behind.

"I… I would be lying if I said I had had a happy life here, Mina."

She did not want to see the darkness and despair in his eyes, of those many years, centuries of life, hope, friendship, grief, loneliness… but if he had _lived_ those years, those centuries, _she _ought to be able to face what they did to his eyes when he was thinking about them. Now it was her turn to cling to her mug.

"But many men and women all around us have lives that are less than happy," Elentar added calmly. "And my life was not any better in Arda."

Arda. _Not_ Middle-earth. Again there was that thought: did he even know the books? And who _was_ Tolkien?

"I'm sorry," Mina repeated. _And now what?_ They sat and drank their tea in silence, but the silence was more comfortable than it had been. _And now what?_ Mina asked herself again. Presumably he would return to his lonely life out in the streets. And she would return to the delicate balance of dreams and making ends meet that was her life. Somehow she did not like that thought at all. Suddenly an idea sprang to life and made her heart race. It was a wild idea. It was a completely crazy idea, and she knew that it could destroy that delicate balance she had worked so long to build her life on. She recalled a conversation with Lothíriel, several years ago, when the wild streak of that orderly law student had broken through, "No risk, no fun!"

_No risk, no fun._

She had met some interesting people at the Tolkien conference last year. But no one that really mattered. She had a few good friends at the university and at the Tolkien Society. But no one that challenged her, and her Sindarin, the way Elentar did. Even after such a short time, she would miss that. His sulkiness, his contrariness. Along with his beautiful voice and the chance to really learn Sindarin.

Outside the day was growing dark, and it had started to rain again. Not a surprise in February, in Berlin, but it ought to make the thought of spending the night outside under a bridge or under an overpass quite uncomfortable.

"I have an idea," Mina said abruptly. She was nervous, which made her feel short of breath. "I hope you won't feel that it's because of pity or meant as alms or something. But… Look at the weather outside: it's ghastly. No dog should sleep outside –" She bit her lips. _Wrong, wrong, wrong._ She quickly continued because if she stopped now, she would lose her nerve. "_No one_ should have to sleep outside in that kind of weather. And it's going to stay that way for some time. You know how it is, you can expect spring to hit the town around the middle of April, but even then…"

He was listening, his eyebrows raised, and frowning.

"Anyway," Mina went on. "I want to learn Sindarin. Real Sindarin. And as I see it, you are the only _real_ expert on Sindarin in this whole world. So… I've been thinking I could maybe employ you as a teacher. I'm afraid that I cannot offer you much beyond room and board. I'll have to see how much I can spare. But it would be a few Euro a week at least. And you would have a place to stay."

He opened his mouth, probably to disagree with her, so she quickly added, "I'm really not offering that out of charity. I want to improve my accent, that's all."

She glared at him.

Something in her eyes must have said more than words, for he shook his head a little and replied, his voice sounding faintly dumbstruck, "Yes, your accent is really atrocious."

**oooOooo**

"I think it's enough for tonight," Elentar said in German. "You are getting hoarse. Even you can't learn a language within three days."

Raised eyebrows and a faint smirk were enough to suppress her glare. Instead she muttered, feeling what only could be called a wry smile tugging at her lips, "But I can try."

That made him chuckle and to her surprise, reach out for her in a friendly half-embrace. "You do that, don't you? As if you are afraid I'll run away…"

The unexpected touch made her gasp. She could not deny that, elf or tramp, hundreds of years older than she was, or several years younger, she was attracted to him. She was definitely attracted to him in a way she had not experienced attraction and desire for years.

_As if you are afraid I'll run away…_

She turned into his embrace and looked into his eyes. They were dark like the overcast, muddy sky outside.

"Will you run away?"

She felt each heartbeat, hers and his, separate, searching, but closer than ever before.

"Will you?"

He grew completely still. They had grown closer during the last few days. Accustomed to each other. She knew that he felt safe here, and that he enjoyed working with her, speaking Sindarin, teaching her advanced grammar, picking apart her pronunciation quite mercilessly. But he had always kept at a distance, even when she had sensed… something about him, something that shifted towards her, that made her sometimes almost hope that he felt attracted to her, too.

He inhaled deeply, but he did not draw away, as she had almost expected he would.

"I'm good at running away," he said at last. "I've had a lot of experience."

She kept looking at him. _What kind of answer was that?_

He gave her a strange, sad-sweet smile. But still he did not draw away.

"I'll try not to," he said. "Is that good enough?"

_Is that good enough?_ For anyone who was even halfway sane, this was definitely not good enough, Mina thought. But the touch of his arm on hers made her nipples tingle, and her stomach tighten with need. And the sadness in his eyes made her eyes burn for him, and made her want to kiss his memories away.

"No," she replied. "It's not good enough. But…"

She slowly rose from her chair. He followed her movement, his hand sliding up her arm and around to her back.

"I don't think I care."

**oooOooo**

_One step forwards, two steps backwards_, Mina mused, as she entered the bathroom for an evening shower. That was exactly how she would describe her relationship with Elentar to a friend if she had had the chance to do so ( which she did not, because none of her friends knew about Elentar).

They had kissed that night, yes. But for some reason, he had not touched her. For a moment or two she had entertained thoughts of simply dragging him to her room, ravishing him on the spot, saving any regrets for later. But such wanton acts of desire, just as "one night stands", or, to be perfectly honest, _inviting homeless strangers to her apartment_ – that was not what Wilhelmina Elbenstern did. _Sensible Mina did sensible things._

He _had_ waited in front of her room the next morning and met her with the most gentle kiss imaginable. Once she regained her senses, she regretted only one thing: that she had not opened the door of the bedroom again and…

She let the hot water spray over her body.

_Her body…_ She was 37, and she did not exercise enough. Her body was a scholar's body, soft, without muscles, pale. She was fortunate that she was of a slender disposition, and that she was careful enough with what she ate not to abuse that genetic blessing. However, she did not think that Elentar really _cared_ for what she looked like. Except for the fact that she was a woman.

He _was_ attracted to her. Of that at least, she was sure.

Mina decided to use the lavender shower gel today. Elentar had become fond of the one with lemon flavour. She agreed with his choice; it enhanced the spicy scent of his skin. Not that she got close enough to smell his skin very often.

_She_ was attracted to him.

She turned the water on again. Was it the heat of the water, or the heat of desire that made her lean her cheek against the cool tiles of the wall for relief? She closed her eyes and forced herself to relax. She had always slightly despised not only the swooning heroines of romance novels, but her infatuated girl-friends talking about nothing but the sweet release of a night well-spent with naked bodies twining, heaving…

And now she was standing here in the shower, desperately trying to stop the movie playing in her mind, with herself and Elentar in starring roles. _Oh, look and a behold how the mighty have fallen!_

Resolutely she turned the shower to cold.

_Yes, she was a sexual being.  
Yes, she desired him._

He also seemed to desire her. But if and what would come of that… If she respected him, she had to wait until he was ready for… _for…_

And only because she was having wild fantasies in the shower, that did not mean she was ready for… _for…_

She practically ran from the bathroom.  
She ran right into Elentar. He stared at her without a word.  
She realized that she had forgotten her towel.

Now, for the first time, she saw how _his_ cheeks flushed. His eyes were growing dark, his gaze intent on her naked body.

What did he see that was so fascinating? Her breasts – full, not quite sagging yet, a little irregular in shape – the slight swell of stomach, the wide pubic bone, dark curls interspersed with silver even there? Or was he following the trails and drops of water running down her skin…

She shivered, feeling curiously light-headed. She met his eyes squarely.

"Would you like to come to my room with me?"

**oooOooo**

His body was not unmarked.

As she stroked over a pattern of silvery-white scars on his back, he shivered against her. The light touch of flesh against flesh made her skin tingle and grow tight, almost too tight with desire.

"Even an elf will scar, if he gets beaten with a whip often enough."

She winced, but did not draw back.

"From when you were a sailor?"

He did not reply, but she felt his nod as he moved his head against her shoulder. When his lips touched the sensitive skin between shoulder and throat, all scholarly questions she might have entertained were driven straight from her mind.

Suddenly he pressed her against him, as if he wanted to crawl inside her body, as if he wanted to feel her every limb, every muscle… His penis – she would have to ask him what the Sindarin word was for that – was pressed high and hard against her stomach. And although she felt almost liquid with desire, somehow this was something more than sexual. It went beyond being hungry for sex and release.

He was holding her so tightly that she could hardly breathe, and he was beginning to shake. It started in infinitesimal shivers, like the waves of goose bumps that sometimes flow over the skin between the heat of desire and the cool air of the room, but it turned into shuddering, into an earthquake of helpless shaking, and she did not know what to do or what to say. So she simply returned his embrace. She held him as tightly against her body as she could. She pushed her breasts against his chest. She pressed her pubic bone against the root of his member; she twined her legs around his. She tried to breathe through the heavy, slightly scratchy weight of dread locks that was resting on her lips and the unbelievable, almost painful desire that was making her body shake in response.

And she held him. Simply held him.

After a long time, the shaking diminished, and so did the hardness. He grew soft against her, relaxing in her embrace. Finally, he turned his head up and faced her again. His face was wet with tears, and his left hand trailed down from her shoulder, to her arm, to her breast, to her navel in an almost reverent gesture. _As if…_ slowly thoughts returned to her mind. As if she had done much more than simply holding him and allowing him to cling to her.

"When's the last time someone touched you?" she asked softly.

He looked at her through his tears, and she knew he would tell her the truth.

"Almost one hundred years ago," he replied. "I was wounded during the First World War. The wound needed to be taken care of, cleaned, sown, bandaged."

It was a scar that trailed his ribs on the right side, just above the stomach. Mina knew enough about wounds and history to know that no mortal man would have survived a wound like that. She reached out and followed the outline of the scar with her fingertips.

"It's been almost one hundred years since the last time someone touched you?"

He shivered again under her light touch. But he did not draw back, and he did not look away when their eyes met.

"Yes," he replied.

**oooOooo**

They did not sleep with each other that night, or the next night or any other night during that week. They slept in each other's arms. They kissed and they held each other close, naked skin to naked skin. There was heat, and there was desire, but there was more: a soft longing of sinking into each other, of finding a home in the other, body and soul, when their world would not offer them a home like that.

Somewhere in her mind, Mina realized that she was already neck-deep, and sinking quickly. She was falling in love with Elentar, and she was not sure if that was a good idea. When he held her close, when there was this endless need in his eyes, this incredible yearning, she was almost sure that he would not simply leave her, would not run away again. But… what he had offered her, painfully honest, made her doubt, made her question her sanity whenever she was not with him.

_"I'll try not to,"_ he had told her. _"Is that good enough?"_

Fuck, no. It was not good enough, not nearly good enough. She was 37. "I'll try not to run away" was nowhere near good enough. But she was already too much in love with him to send him away. Even without the additional bond sex would tie between them.

It was Saturday evening, and they had decided to stay home. Mina had suggested going to a concert or to the movies, but she had not really been surprised when Elentar had told her that he would prefer to stay at home.

"I'm glad you are comfortable here," she said. He was, curled up in the corner of the couch, reading Chaucer, a cup of tea on the table next to him. He looked up, for a moment his expression was guarded, wary, but then he relaxed, and gave her a smile that was so sweet she felt her heart melt.

"How could I not be? I am allowed to live in the most comfortable library I have ever seen, and I may drink tea while reading."

Was that a grin?

"I can't help myself," Mina replied tersely. "I simply _like_ books."

Elentar put his book down, obviously quite content with being interrupted. Sometimes, she knew by now, her presence, the confinement of the apartment bothered him, scared him, perhaps. But at the same time he was hesitant to leave. As if… she and the safe haven of the apartment could disappear once he was outside in the street again. He also, Mina realized, simply enjoyed talking. The friendly company of another person. A person who knew who – and what he really was. Was that what had finally driven him to the fringes of society? That he could not bear to live one lifetime after another of lying to those he cared for?

"I'll even allow you to eat crisps, cookies or chocolate while you are reading," Mina offered. "Your choice." She put the sweets down on the table.

"This is paradise!" He tried the chocolate.

"I take it your father was very protective about his books?"

"Yeah," Elentar closed his eyes, his expression one of intent concentration on the flavour and texture of the chocolate. Mina watched with fascination how Elentar could give himself completely to the moment. Somehow that surprised her, with him being an immortal. She felt her tongue move to her lips in thoughtfulness. Maybe he _had_ to be like that? In order to stay alive, as time and generations of men passed him by?

He opened his eyes again, his gaze catching her eyes, then travelling lower, following the womanly curves of her body. Mina felt heat rise to her cheeks. He winked at her, and she knew that the heat had to show in a slight flush that was visible at least to an elf.

"Yes, he was," Elentar went on, and the happy gleam faded from his eyes. "He said he had it from his father, my grandfather. Elrond. Elrond _Peredhel_, a great lore-master and warrior in his younger days. He was herald to the High King during the Second Age of Arda."

He really did not know the books!

Mina sat down at the other side of the couch. "You really don't know the books, do you?"

He fidgeted uncomfortably. Finally he sighed. He probably knew by now that Mina, a relentless scholar, would never leave the matter alone.

"No, I don't. I _am_ good with languages, and I am an avid reader, when I get the chance. However, during earlier centuries, I was rarely rich enough to afford the idleness of scholarship. And… for a homeless street musician it's sometimes not that easy to get access to the public libraries. They don't want tramps and beggars in there, you know."

Mina winced. Elentar ignored her reaction.

"I think I did notice that there was something odd to the books when those movies came out." He looked at Mina, his face a little too tight and empty. "I… I could hardly fail to notice the promotion posters that sported someone with the same name as my grandfather." He shrugged. "Maybe I did not want to see the connection? Maybe I _do_ not want to know how someone comes to be writing about what appears to be my home and my native language?"

He gave Mina that look with the raised eyebrows. Hugo Weaving had not been that far off the mark, Mina contemplated. Apart from the hairline, of course.

"I could change the subject now," Mina offered, "and ask you if I may touch your ears tonight."

That brought a grin to Elentar's face. "No. It's okay. I can see that you are incredibly curious, Mina. And though I would like to deny it…" The by now familiar shadow darkened his eyes and features, but he kept smiling at her. "I _do_ admit that I am curious, too. Give me those books that are good enough to make you want to learn Sindarin with such passion. Maybe I'll even find out what's responsible for that accent of yours…"

She did not rise to the bait.

"I _would_ like to know who Tolkien really was," she said.

"You don't believe he was from this world?"

She shook her head. "The world he 'created' always felt too real to me. Too real for someone who was just a visitor there, either in his imagination or for real. And… though there's not much about Sindarin and Quenya in his writings really, no matter that it was obviously enough to spoil my accent –" now she did glare at him, "– I think it's too much for someone to make it all up on his own. Yes, I think that Tolkien was not from this world. But damned if I know why he wrote books about your history and published them here. And why he stayed here."

_Or did he?_ There was a grave in this world with Jarro inside it. Yet here on the sofa, curled up not quite as comfortably as a few minutes ago, was the living, breathing proof that only because there was a grave in one world, did not necessarily mean that there was not a second life in another world.

"Well," Elentar said slowly. "I guess there's only one thing we can do to find out. Give me those books and I'll read them."

**oooOooo**

**Please feel free to leave a comment or to post to my forums! A/N will be posted to my forums as well. **


	16. I don't like these books!

**16. "I don't like those books"**

Elentar put the book down. His hands curled around its corners, his fingers thumping an irregular, faintly irritated rhythm on its cover.

He had spent two days reading, barely aware of his surroundings, barely aware of how Mina left for her jobs, and when she returned. He had joined her for dinner and slept next to her, but he had not really been there.

He had been in Arda of the Third Age.

"I don't like those books," he muttered under his breath.

Mina turned around on her chair, glancing carefully in his direction. She had gone to great lengths not to interfere with his reading. Now she was waiting nervously for his reaction, but trying not to show just how nervous she was. But he could see that her shoulders were tense, and she was chewing on her lower lip.

He wondered what she was thinking of him. It struck him how much she knew already about him, just because of the books. His fingers tightened around the book again. He had to restrain himself from opening the book again and going back to the last pages, to some paragraphs in the appendices. Parts of his family history that he had almost forgotten. No, he had to be honest: there were some details he had never known. Things that his father would have told him in time, had he not run away…

"I don't like those books," Elentar repeated. "That style is almost unbearable."

The corners of Mina's mouth were quirking with laughter.

He glared at her. "Really. This… syntax. The dialogue! I don't think people ever spoke that way; at least they did not when I grew up - or here on earth in earlier centuries."

He fell silent, his eyes focused on the cover of the book.

Suddenly, he looked up.

"I wish there were more about my family in there," he said and quickly looked away again. He had not meant to say that at all, and he hated how his eyes were suddenly burning with tears.

"I'm sorry," Mina said. "It has to feel very strange to be reading about the history of your… family, and your… home world like that."

"Yeah." He did not know what to say, he did not know what to think. He felt a sudden, almost uncontrollable urge to take the book and throw it against the wall or out of the window. But while this would maybe give him a moment of deep satisfaction, it would not solve anything. The book was there. The story was there. And he was…

"Some things in there are wrong, though," he said finally.

"Wrong?" Mina swivelled around on her chair and faced him, excitement gleaming in her eyes. "How wrong?"

"Wrong wrong." Elentar retorted, regretting the sharp tone of his voice instantly. "I'm sorry."

"That's okay. But… may I ask what it is that's wrong in the books?"

"I guess so…" He forced himself to let go of the book and lean back against the couch. "Helm's Deep. It was one of my favourite stories as a child. There was a large contingent of archers sent there from Lothlórien, and a small company of spear fighters from Imladris. They later accompanied the Rohirrim to fight on the Fields of the Pelennor and at the Black Gates, too. My father said it was no more than a gesture, because they could not spare many fighters – orcs were gathering at Dol Guldur, and they expected attacks on Lórien and Eryn Lasgalen. But my father said both my great-grandmother and my grandfather were of one mind: it was essential that the friendship between _Edain_ and _Eldar_ had to be renewed in the face of that Enemy. There's a park in Minas Tirith to commemorate the elves that died during those battles, and I think there's a memorial at Helm's Deep, too – though I've never been there."

Mina stared at him, her mouth opening in an astonished "Oh".

"And that story about the meeting of my uncle and my aunt," he went on. "That's not how it happened at all. The story that is in the appendices –" He thumped the book. "That's a song! I think someone called Lindir composed it to honour my aunt and my uncle. He wrote a long song he called the 'Lay of Arwen' and modelled it after the 'Lay of Lúthien'. They met at dinner. Arwen arrived in the afternoon, travelling from Lothlórien. She did whatever females do when they spend hours in the bathroom, and was introduced to my uncle at dinner that night. My grandfather threw what you would call a 'Welcome home'-party for my aunt. And that's how they met. They were dinner partners and afterwards they danced together."

He sounded slightly irritated. "My sisters liked the song better than how it really happened," he added as an afterthought.

"I'm sorry," Mina said softly. "I –"

"It's okay." He released his breath in a sigh. "No, it's not. But there's nothing you can do.

"He did not say that it was my father and my uncles who reforged Narsil. My father said it would never break again because it carried the strength and the love of three brothers."

He felt as if his words were like pebbles being cast into a lake made up of his memories. Each sentence was a pebble, and the rings they made as they sank to the ground stirred yet another memory. His heart was heavy. Like a rock it would sink straight to the darkest and most painful depths of his past.

"I enjoyed the story about the barrow-wights as a child.

"I would have liked to meet my grandfather.

"I…"

He stopped and rubbed his burning eyes. The threatening tears had subsided, but he felt definitely shaken. He was almost scared to look at Mina again. He knew by now what he would find in her gaze. Solid, unwavering sympathy. What scared him even more was that he wanted to find that in her eyes.

"So you agree with my idea that Tolkien really came from Middle-earth?"

He smiled a silent thank you at her.

"Yes, I do agree. Whoever he was, he is from Middle-earth. And he has a nasty sense of humour, too."

Mina frowned. "A nasty sense of humour? How?"

"Well…" Elentar flipped through the appendices. "The pronunciation guide he has in here… he uses some sound shifts that were hotly debated among my people. Or so my father taught me. And…" He looked at the pages in front of him and could not quite contain a certain smirk.

"What?" Mina's frown deepened.

"He used sound shifts that were… discarded, or which were only debated, or the opposite of that which actually occurred."

"What?" She narrowed her eyes to furious slits. "He did what?"

"Look," He motioned for her to come over and sit down next to him. "Here, and here and here." His finger traced the pages where the Elvish languages and their pronunciation were discussed. "Those are the sounds I have practiced with you."

He repeated them again. "Apparently the original sounds were this." He picked up a piece of paper and quickly jotted them down. "Then sound shifts occurred – sometimes it was decided that certain sounds suited better, at other times the changes simply occurred and it was debated whether that was acceptable or not. There was much controversy. That was in Aman… long before the Noldor returned to Middle-earth." He demonstrated the sounds that had sparked the discussion among the elves in Aman.

Mina repeated the sounds under her breath, some of them the familiar sounds she had picked out of "The Lord of the Rings" and other writings by Tolkien, others the accentuations that Elentar had been teaching her, and some that were completely unfamiliar.

Elentar put the pen down. "That guy, whoever he was – or is, he put exactly the wrong sound shifts into those books."

"But how could he do that! That's… that's…" Mina was positively fuming and helplessly searching for a fitting epithet. "How could he!

"That's simply mean!" She concluded finally. Her blazing eyes were angry; her bearing was that of a deeply affronted scholar. Somehow she reminded him of his father…

"I'm sorry, sweet." Without thinking he put his arm around her and pulled her against him, placing a kiss on her mouth. At first resisting, he felt how her pouting lips relaxed under the pressure of his mouth. They grew soft, and silky, then the pressure was returned. His heartbeat quickened. He had to release the breath he had been holding in a sigh, and as his lips opened, he felt Mina's tongue curling lightly against them. He felt his own tongue slip forwards, twining around Mina's in a lazy, languid dance.

When they broke apart, Elentar felt as if he was coming up for air after diving down into a deep pool. He was panting, and his heart was positively racing. And there was Mina in his arms…

He coughed and drew back, feeling awkward. Passion throbbed in his body, and he was glad that he was wearing thick new jeans that concealed quite how strongly his body was reacting to this… kiss.

"I – I – ah – yes," he said and forced himself to turn back to the book. "What was it we were talking about?"

Mina sighed. He did not dare to look at her. He could feel her thoughts as he had never felt the thoughts of another being before, probably because he had kept away from all human contact for such a long time.

She wanted him. She wanted him as much as he wanted her.

Why was he so frightened to give in?

**oooOooo**

Her heart was in her ears, a heated pulse, and she felt how her fingers curled into fists of suppressed anger. They slept in each other's arms every night, and there had been so much desire in that kiss, how could he simply stop? How could he simply lie next to her and do… …nothing?

She had never expected him to feel attracted to her. She was discomfited by how much she felt drawn to him. But – this – he was obviously attracted to her. The denim covered bulge was not as invisible as he was apparently hoping it was. While she understood his initial need to simply be held, touched, embraced, to simply feel another, no, not another human being, but… to simply feel another _person_ again, she _did_ understand that! More than that, she felt incredibly touched, and humbled that he allowed her to be the one who held him, who comforted him. But why did he make no move to go beyond that? Especially since it seemed so obvious that he wanted to?

Mina's fingernails bit into her palms. She felt the urge to noisily snort "Men!" and huff off to the kitchen or to her bedroom. But even as the urge occurred to her, she knew that it would not help. He was no man, even if he was more obstinate than any partner she had had before. She did allow herself a sigh.

Then, her voice almost steady, she replied, "We were talking about where Tolkien came from. Do you have any idea who he was? If he put such subtle mistakes into the books as some kind of weird joke, he must be someone with an intimate knowledge of the Elvish languages and their history."

The gratitude in Elentar's eyes at her acceptance of his drawing back once more both soothed her and infuriated her.

"Are you asking if he was an elf?"

Mina nodded. "Yes, more or less. What do you think?"

Elentar raised his eyebrows as he pondered the matter. She traced the graceful arc of the brows with her eyes, eyebrows of doom, indeed. Almost against her will, Mina felt a smile tugging at the corner of her lips.

Then Elentar shook his head. "No, I don't think so. Though my reasoning is not exactly that of a scholar…"

"Why?" Her hands relaxed slightly, and she turned to Elentar again, curious for his explanation.

He grinned, a little embarrassed. "Well, look at me! I have been here for more than three hundred years, and I have not dared to write down anything about where I come from. You are the first person I have ever told more about my origins than that I am a fisher from LeHavre!"

"Oh." Now it was Mina's turn to feel discomfited. "So you don't think an elf would do that? I mean, even if it's not something you would do…"

Elentar shook his head. "No, I really don't think it was an elf."

He rubbed his hand over his mouth in a thoughtful gesture. "And it's not only that I don't think an elf would not dare that… obviously we are quite daring, at times."

To Mina's immense amusement the tip of his right ear that peeked through his dreadlocks seemed to flush in an almost pink colour.

"Well – there are too many details about other cultures in there. Although elves were always lore masters and collectors of knowledge, we never knew very much about hobbits, or even dwarves."

"Good point." Mina pondered what else he had told her. "But then who was it?"

Suddenly a thought struck her. "And how is it possible that Peter Jackson used the correct version in the movies? Or – not quite the correct version… he did not have any elves in Minas Tirith."

"Peter Jackson?" Elentar stared at her, momentarily confused.

Mina stared back. "Of course. You never saw the movies, did you?"

He rolled his eyes at her. "I'm a homeless street musician, remember? The likes of me are seldom invited to a show in the local multi-plex cinema."

Mina counted silently to three. So he did not actually enjoy the way he had been living. There was so much she did not know or understand about him.

"Well," she explained, satisfied that her voice was quite calm. "In the movie, there are elves at Helm's Deep. But there are no elves at Minas Tirith. Did Haldir die at Helm's Deep?"

"Haldir?" Elentar frowned. Then he remembered the name. "No. Or – I don't think so. I don't remember the name from anything that my father told me."

"Would an ordinary human being have an idea that changes the plot of the books in a way that it is actually closer to the real history of your world?" Mina automatically sucked her lower lip into her mouth after asking that question. It was possible. Probable?

Elentar slowly shook his head. "I don't really think so. But what does that mean?"

Mina exhaled her breath in a whistle. "Damned if I know! Maybe there's someone else around who knows Middle-earth, and he – or she, I suppose – has been talking to P.J.?"

"Making good money with the books and the movies, you mean?"

"Yeah, something like that," Mina agreed.

"I won't see the movies."

She had not expected that he would. "No, of course not. And I would never expect you to! Actually, I don't think it's the same person. It just doesn't, hm, feel the same."

Though if there were more subtle jokes like the one with the wrong pronunciations, she would obviously be the last to recognize them.

"But the author of those books definitely has to be from Middle-earth."

Elentar nodded. "Yes, I think so."

"If he is… you know, Elentar, he wrote much more than only these books, or what is published in 'The Silmarillion' or even in the collection his son published, the history of Middle-earth. I mean, maybe, in one of the Tolkien archives, maybe there is something somewhere that could help you go home."

Elentar tensed, and Mina immediately knew that she had said something wrong. "Mina, but don't you understand? Middle-earth isn't my home! I ran away from my family, from my home. I had no home in Middle-earth even before I came here!" He paused. Without looking at her, he continued, "And even if I could return to Middle-earth, what would I find when I returned now? Can you remember an ancestor of your family who disappeared three hundred years ago? Or even any name from your family from, say, 1700?"

Of course she could not.

He slowly turned around and faced her, his eyes dark with pain. "It doesn't matter if there is a way back to Middle-earth for me, Mina, because I have no home in Middle-earth that I could return to."

**oooOooo**

He could see in her eyes how hurt she was. She had only wanted to help, and he had practically thrown her friendship back into her face.

He jumped to his feet and went to the window, no longer able to sit in one place, pacing back and forth, trying to walk away his agitation. Of course the apartment was too small for that. But he did not want to leave it for the deepening twilight of early spring.

He stopped dead in his tracks, staring out of the window without really looking at anything. _He did not want to leave her_.

While it was true what he had said, that he had no home in Middle-earth, and that he had had no home there even before he had passed through the Void to this world, only a few weeks ago he would probably have hesitated not even for a second if he had found a door with the sign "back to Middle-earth" on it. But now…

He inhaled deeply, a very shaky breath. Then he turned around and nearly jumped out of his skin when he found Mina standing right behind him. He had been so preoccupied with his thoughts that he had never heard her approaching him.

"I'm sorry."

"I'm so sorry, I did not –" he broke off, then tried again. He reached for Mina, gently taking her arms, fighting the urge to pull her closely against him. "I'm sorry," he repeated. "You only wanted to help me. I know."

She nodded silently, but she did not try to pull away.

He felt the warmth of her body even through jeans and shirt. There was something to her scent that made his skin prickle with need. And it was no longer the need to be held, to simply feel the bodily presence of another soul. It was more. It was a fierce need, a deep desire. It filled his whole body, his whole soul, and it made his _thela_ throb almost painfully.

For a fleeting moment he wondered if it had been like this for his parents, when they had come together, when they had joined, body and soul… But then Mina moved forward a little, pressing her body against him, her hands sliding around his hips and cupping his buttocks.

"I know," she whispered. She tilted her head up. "Kiss me and make it all better?"

He inclined his head and touched his lips to her mouth. As before, he felt the smooth touch of her tongue questing his mouth. This time he was ready for it and responded by twirling his tongue against her lips in return, soon conducting a thoroughly exhilarating exploration of his own.

At long last they had to come up for breath or suffocate. They broke apart and gasped for air, clinging to each other with their hands as if they were drowning.

And maybe they were. But at the moment Elentar could not care less.

"Bed," Mina said decisively, drawing him forwards, the pressure of her body and the zipper now less than pleasant against his straining member.

"Yes," he groaned. He would do anything to get out of his jeans at the moment and anything to be with Mina.

He kissed her again, a slow kiss this time, mouth closed, but he allowed his lips to wander away from hers, sliding down to her chin, her jaw, the pounding vein along her throat. When he had reached the neck of her shirt, he stopped. He drew back again but without releasing her. "Let's go."

They moved towards the door, their progress hampered by arms twined around two bodies, two bodies trying to press as closely together as two people could and still be able to walk. When they collided with the frame, Mina stumbled, and Elentar had to catch her in his arms. Somehow one of his hands ended up under her shirt, and he thought the feel of her naked skin was enough to drive him crazy.

"Bed," Elentar breathed, inhaling her scent, trying to keep from pounding himself against her right then and there.

"Good idea."

They finally reached the bed and collapsed in a heap. He tried to undress her. His hands were inside her shirt, groping for the hooks of her bra, while she fumbled for the buttons of his jeans, while she flailed her legs around to get rid of her own pants, while he tried simultaneously to shrug off his shirt, until they suddenly found themselves tied together in a knot of limbs, loosened attire, and searching tongues.

"Stop, stop, you're tearing my shirt apart!" Mina's voice sounded giddy.

The daze of passion receded enough to allow him to smile at her, and to think that he had never seen anyone look that beautiful before, tangled hair of black and silver, the sweaty blouse halfway discarded, her breasts almost ready to spill out of the bra, if he could get another go at those damn hooks, that was…

"Sorry." He smiled and could not help himself. He just had to reach for that tendril of damp hair and smooth it back, and trail his fingers down her cheek, her jaw, her throat and enjoy how she shivered against him.

"You are so beautiful."

She caught his hand and kissed his fingertips.

"You are, too."

They separated and slowly, facing each other, watching each other carefully, finished undressing. He was very much aware of his member. It strained towards Mina's body, and it felt as if it was on fire. He had not felt like that for many years. It was a feeling somewhere between pleasure and pain, and he wanted it to last.

She sneezed, and for some reason that brought out goose bumps all over her body and made her nipples stand up even more.

Suddenly, he felt awkward again. True, they had slept in one bed for several nights now, but this… this was different.

"May I?" He held his hands out to her in a receiving, longing gesture. He wanted to touch her breasts, full, slightly sagging, slightly irregular, and so utterly enticing. Instead of replying, she simply moved a little forward, and so her breasts slid into his hands. Feeling this hot, smooth weight in his hands, made desire well up inside him so powerfully that he had to close his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, he saw that his _thela_ was crowned with the telltale sign of eagerness, a small, pearlescent drop.

And Mina was merciless; she leaned against him, pressing the thick curls of her – Mozart had called it "triangle of love" – against him, and he felt that he must have her now, now, or simply burst apart.

"What do you call it?" she asked and reached down.

His reply was an incoherent moan, as all his juices, and all his desire fought for release.

"_Thela_," he answered finally, his voice hoarse.

"A spear!" He felt her smile against his breast, as she kissed her way towards his nipple. She nipped his sensitive skin lightly, almost playfully, while her hands slid around to his buttocks once more. "And what a wonderful spear."

Suddenly, she looked into his eyes. "And will the great warrior show me how to use it?"

"He will," he replied and pulled Mina down to the mattress with him.

Lying next to her, he could not hold his hands still any longer, or keep his mouth from her body. He had to touch her skin, he had to explore the wonderland that was her body, all those secret places that made her smile and writhe and gasp. He lost all sense of time. All he knew was that his body, yes, his very soul was becoming so attuned to Mina, that he hardly knew where his body ended and hers began. He felt his fingers on the small pearl of flesh between her legs as if he was rubbing the sensitive vein on the underside of his member, and he knew that she felt the feelings that her hands kneading his buttocks provoked as if she had slipped out of her skin and was inside his body.

Suddenly, he could wait no longer. He needed, he needed, he could not withstand the strain any longer. He needed to be within her, he needed to be one with her in any way he could. He wanted only one thing, to make their love come alive, to make their love real, as real as a young tree, springing to life, to flower, and then to ripen and bear fruit.

He felt the juices rise within him and with a gasp sheathed himself within her body. She twined her legs around his to draw him even deeper. She pressed her body up against him, even as he pressed downwards, setting a rhythm much like the sea, undulating in waves of pleasure, flesh within flesh and soul within soul.

Orgasm grabbed him as suddenly, as unexpectedly, as the maelstrom of the foundering ship that had brought him to this world centuries ago. One minute there was straining, painful sweetness, the next a release of fire burned away all barriers that were left between himself and Mina.

Within the fire that engulfed them, it seemed to him that he could see a tiny seed, an almost imperceptible seed, golden, and beautiful.

And it took root.

In the aftermath of passion, he lay with Mina in his arms. The tension and the heat of shared desire were slowly ebbing out of his member, and with it the echo of vows of love he barely remembered speaking.

_"I live for you. I die for you."_


	17. Unexpected Consequences

**17. Unexpected Consequences **

She dissolved in Elentar's arms. She could tell no longer where her body ended and where his began. There were lips and kisses, hands stroking, fingers teasing, legs twined together. Was it her mouth on his? Was it his lips on her breasts or hers squeezing his nipples? One moment she seemed to be inside his mind, looking at her with his eyes, feeling her heat with his body, the next moment she was no longer alone in _her_ thoughts – what thoughts she had left – but he was there, writhing, _clawing_, loving along with her, within her.

When she felt she could bear it no longer, he finally entered her, smoothly sheathing himself inside her. Always before her body had resisted this joining. She had been too dry, the act itself over too quickly, altogether more pain than pleasure. Now she was humid, open, ready. Like a field in spring, warm and wet with rain, ready to be planted… She arched her body against his, her flesh tightening around his member, sucking him deeper, and for a moment she experienced a sense of power such as she had never felt before.

Then he pressed down into her, setting a rhythm that was as inescapable as it was delicious. She gave herself up to him, quickly losing all sense of time and space. Time was the rhythm of his strokes and her convulsions around him; space was skin on skin and lips on lips.

Without warning he pounded deeper into her, and found a spot no other lover had yet discovered, a spot she did not even know existed. For the first time in her life, she screamed with pleasure.

And then she was gone.

Her body, his body, her mind, his mind: Mina was floating in a sphere of golden fire. And she was not alone. Elentar was there with her, and they were one. They were made of love, they had become love, and love was life. Within that fire, she felt a rhythm, a pulse, a chorus:

_"I live for you. I die for you."_

She was those words. He was those words. Mina could see those words, words of love, words of life. They were like petals around a tiny, fiery seed. And in the last moment before their shared passion reached its peak, Mina felt how she joined hands with Elentar and they both reached for that tiny seed at the core of the fire that surrounded them.

When Mina opened her eyes, she lay in Elentar's arms.

Her body felt strange to her, as if it did not belong to her anymore. Slow, silent moments passed, during which she had to rediscover her body. Legs, twined with his, breasts, pressed against his chest, cheek hidden in the crook of his arm, hands, clinging to his body…

…she felt weak, almost liquid, waiting…

Suddenly, she experienced a short, almost painful stab deep inside her womb. A last lingering convulsion of passion? Then there was a sense of heaviness, of otherness, as if something had changed within her, but she did not know what it was.

Elentar must have felt it, too, for his eyes flew open, and he put his left hand on her stomach, between navel and pubic bone. He tensed beside her as if struck by a whip. Sitting up, he placed both hands on her belly.

Mina felt a frown grow on her face, and a sickening, ominous feeling somewhere in the area of her stomach. She swallowed hard, still not quite back in the real world.

"What's the matter? Is something wrong?"

He did not answer, but closed his eyes, his hands resting on her body. Heat seemed to spread from his hands, enveloping her, and as the heat grew stronger, she grew more aware of her body again, the dizziness of passion subsiding. She felt as if she could trace the outline of each organ, heart, liver, lung, and as if she could follow the stream of her blood through the tiniest veins of her body. It was the most extraordinary sensation. She could have flowed within her blood for hours, peacefully propelled along by the regular beating of her heart. But the warmth of Elentar's hands led her attention to her womb.

Once there, she realized that the impression of change had been right: she was no longer alone in her body.

The tiny, fiery seed of love, of life, had taken root inside her.

She opened her eyes. The room was dark around here. She could barely glimpse the outlines of Elentar's naked body kneeling at her side. Mina swallowed again, her mouth painfully dry. The skin at her temples prickled suddenly, and she felt the weakness of shock washing over her. Somehow she managed to sit up. Her right hand snaked down to her belly. Elentar took her hand and placed it below his.

She felt the warm skin of her stomach, her body still hot with smouldering passion. And somewhere below her hand was her daughter. No more than a seed, but already growing, taking shape and spirit.

Mina stared at Elentar and then she said the first thing that came to her mind.

"She'll have your eyes."

**oooOooo**

Mina sat in her bed, cuddled into warm blankets, her hands resting on her stomach, a part of her attention turned inwards. If someone had asked her to describe how she experienced what was happening inside her, she would have said that the fire of creation was subsiding, as the seed that was now going to grow into her daughter was burrowing deeper into her womb.

All at once she could understand the way expectant mothers sometimes looked as if they were not quite here, not quite in this world, but in another world of flesh and warmth and slow ripening. She was pretty sure, however, that there were not many other mothers who knew only a few hours after conceiving that their daughter would be born precisely a year from now, with ears that were almost translucent and delicately pointed, and that she would grow up to have her father's brilliant silver-grey eyes.

The father in question was pacing the room.

He was also wringing his hands.

Strangely enough, the more nervous Elentar was, the calmer Mina felt. More than that, she felt whole. It was as if all the missing pieces in her life were finally falling into place, completing a picture that had never made sense to her before. It was a picture that was not of this world, but it was very beautiful.

Abruptly Elentar turned back to the bed and fell to his knees next to her. The expression on his face was the most curious mixture of shock, despair, love and hope. He reached for her hands, shuddering as he touched her belly in the process.

"I am so sorry," he whispered. "I did not think that this was possible. Or I would have…"

"You would have what? Not wished for love, for life, and for creating this spark of life as much as I did?"

"I…" He trailed off.

Suddenly Mina realized that he was afraid that she would not want their child. She shook her head, trying to clear her mind. She was still a little dizzy with the love she had found and its admittedly unexpected consequences. Had someone told her a few weeks ago that she would conceive a child by someone who was to all appearances a homeless vagabond and street musician, she would have called them crazy – probably she would have told them that not even a wealthy broker featured in the plans she had made for her life.

Now, however, it looked as if the plans for her life were being remade every minute.

"There are a few pages about the customs of naming among the Eldar in 'Morgoth's Ring'," Mina said thoughtfully. "If I remember it correctly, it is the father who will give an Elvish child the first, but a mother may name an elf-child, too. Is that true?"

"Yes, or – I don't know. I…" He broke off, confused. He inhaled deeply, obviously trying to regain his composure. "That is what my father told me, yes. He called me Elentar. My mother…" He blushed. "It was only a nickname, not a name of foresight."

Mina grinned. "What did she call you?"

She was gratified to see the by now familiar scowl back on his face, eyebrows raised and eyes glittering.

"Lentil," he muttered.

She giggled. "I bet you were a cute kid."

He glared at her.

Mina pulled his hands up from her belly and kissed them. "I am sure you will pick a beautiful name for our daughter. And now… if you don't mind, would you maybe hold me while I sleep?"

He did not reply, but slid into bed behind her, spooning her body, his left arm around her hip, his palm coming to rest below her navel.

She did not expect she would be able to sleep like that. Mina liked cuddling before falling asleep, but generally she needed some freedom of movement during her sleep, unlike Elentar, who did not really seem to need sleep at all and who could stay in one and the same position all night. But she knew that he needed to hold her, to feel her, and not only her, but the spark of life they had kindled that night. Holding her, holding them, would reassure Elentar, and calm him.

Mina sighed softly and relaxed in the warmth of Elentar's embrace.

Soon she was sound asleep.

**oooOooo**

She opened her eyes. She was not alone in her bed, and she felt slightly stiff and deliciously sore. Elentar was cuddled behind her, the palm of his left hand curled protectively around her stomach. Mina blinked, waking slowly.

Memory returned.

Passion. Desire. Love.

_Life._

It seemed like a dream, a strange, feverish dream that could not possibly stand the test of daylight. But there was Elentar's arm around her, and she did feel different.

She turned her attention inwards.

The seed was still there. Not as palpable, not as fiery, rather peaceful, deeply burrowed in her fertile womb. Her fingers slid down to her belly, interlacing with Elentar's.

No dream. _Reality._

Who would have thought?

She would be a mother after all.

Mina stared at the selection of teas in her cupboard.

"What's the matter?"

"I'm just not sure which kinds of tea I should not be drinking now," she replied. "I think a mild green tea should be alright." She sucked in her lips thoughtfully.

"You know, I don't think I can do a pregnancy test for a few days yet It will take some time for the hormonal adjustment to manifest in my bloodstream… so I can't really go to my gynaecologist and get advice on healthy nutrition and what trace minerals I should stock up on. I think we should go and buy a book or two today."

Elentar gaped at her. "Test…? Book…?"

She turned around, rose on tiptoes and kissed him gently. He was too surprised to draw away, and when she leaned against him, he had to hold her, or let her stumble.

"Mmmm," she replied. "I have no idea if an Elvish baby will need more or less folic acid than a human foetus, but I'll make damn sure that your daughter gets everything that her human half could need. However, as a human, I cannot possibly know that I am pregnant only a few hours after conceiving. Therefore we'll have to wait a few days until we can go and consult my doctor."

She felt Elentar's heart starting to race. She drew back a little and forced him to look at her as she continued, "I am a little old for a first child, but not that old. I'm healthy. There should be no problems."

The word 'problems' had been a mistake. Elentar's look of alarm quickly changed to an expression of panic. For a short moment, Mina wondered if there were already enough hormones in her blood to make her as calm as she was, or if it was an Elvish thing that kept her from panicking. Whatever the reason, Mina was nowhere close to the hysterics she probably ought to be having right now.

"Your daughter will be perfectly alright, Daddy."

Elentar paled.

Mina turned to the electric kettle, swallowing a chuckle. She was not frightened, but to say she was perfectly calm and composed would have been a lie, too. A child had never been on her agenda. But now there would be a child. More than that, a daughter with dark hair and her father's eyes. The thought made her feel more than a little giddy.

How would they live?

Mina stopped spooning her tea into the pot, her hand midair.

_Where_ would they live?

For a moment time seemed to stop around her, her heartbeat like heavy drumbeat in her ears. Then she exhaled in a gasp and forced herself to continue preparing her tea.

It was a pertinent question, of course. A question she would have to ask, sooner or later. And there were other questions…

The tea was steeping. Mina stared out of the window, grateful that Elentar was as preoccupied with his thoughts as she was with hers. The kitchen was silent.

Was it an elf, or was it human?

Mina shook her head. She already knew that, she realized with a pang.

Not human. _Peredhel. _Half-elven. Immortal. Not of this world.

The tea was ready. Mechanically, she poured the tea and sat down at the table, lost in her thoughts. Her fingers curled around the cup. She sipped carefully, the hot liquid soothing in her mouth, although she did not really taste the light, tart flavour she would have enjoyed on any other morning.

_A lonely elf in a world of men…_

That was what her daughter would be if they stayed here. Not like Elentar in Esgaroth, of that Mina was sure. Somehow she knew that her daughter could be happy either here or there. But here… her daughter would be one of a kind, the only elvish girl in a world of men. And there? There. Mina frowned. Would that be Aman or Arda?

And she?

Would _she_ be happy there?

She glanced at Elentar, pale face, worried eyes, hands under the table, so she would not see how he was intertwining his fingers, wringing his hands, shocked, worried, apparently feeling as if he had caused a catastrophe when he had only, finally, dared to love.

It was probably not the best time to say it.

On the other hand…

"Elentar, I do love you."

He jumped in the chair, his wrists colliding painfully with the edge of the table. Wincing, Elentar pulled his hands up. Mina bit her lips to keep from laughing. Then her eyes met his, and the laughter fled from her lips. There was so much in his gaze: pain, grief, hunger, hope, love. All that and more, more than any human being could have held in his eyes. Almost too much. _Almost._

Elentar reached for her, and she allowed him to take her hands and hold them. He held them so tightly that his grip was almost painful. She kept looking at his eyes, and she saw how much he wanted to say "I love you", and how scared he was of speaking those words, because it seemed to him that as soon as he admitted that he loved someone, even to himself, something would happen to take that love away.

He could not say that yet.

But he wanted to say something. She needed him to say something.

"I think we should buy rings, too."

Mina had to blink tears away that were suddenly burning in her eyes. This was not at all how she had expected to get married, when she had given the matter any thought at all.

"So, he did get that right?" She was talking about 'The Laws and Customs of the Eldar'. "Morgoth's Ring" had been the first thing Elentar had picked up that morning, even before breakfast, reading up on what she had asked him about naming ceremonies.

Elentar made a rather disparaging noise.

"Not really. But we do exchange golden rings, we speak vows and blessings, and we do call upon Eru. At least that's what I remember from my childhood. And…" He hesitated, then went on, "It is the willing union of body and soul that makes a marriage valid among the Eldar."

"I was – I am – willing."

"I… I know." He squeezed her hands even tighter, staring at their joined fingers.

Mina sighed. She had hoped for a different reaction. But if she knew one thing about Elentar by now, then it was that he did not react well to prodding or attempts to manipulate him. She forced a smile.

"Well, let's finish breakfast and then we go shopping."

**oooOooo**

"Would you sing something for me?"

It was rather late; the day had been long and exhausting. They were sitting on the couch, Mina curled up next to him, her head resting on his shoulder. The warmth of her body felt good at his side, but her presence also made him nervous. He had to resist the urge to try and sense the spark of new life within her.

How was it possible that his whole life had changed in only one night?

He firmly suppressed the feeling of panic that was threatening to overwhelm him and forced himself to smile at Mina.

"Of course. What do you want to hear?"

His guitar was leaning against the wall, next to the sofa. He picked it up and strummed it gently, adjusting the tuning knobs, hoping she would ask for a song that did not conjure up bitter memories.

"How about some Beatles' song? Or anything that's a bit soft and sweet, really."

Soft and sweet… That was how she felt, so gentle, undemanding, He started playing, singing along in a low, soothing voice.

_"Yesterday, all my troubles seemed so far away…"_

Mina had always loved that song. There was magic in music, and Elentar was a wizard who could weave songs into spells.

_Fire and song… the stuff of stars… _

The music changed. An instrumental piece, but not Mozart this time. Bach? Her head resting against Elentar's shoulder, Mina allowed herself to drift away, buoyed by the melody and the warmth of Elentar's body. Her left hand played with a new ring on her hand, a slender golden band that circled her right index finger.

A ring. A union. _A blurred memory of vows spoken in the throes of passion…_

She wondered if they would repeat the vows in some kind of ceremony.

But then she shook her head. Her parents were dead, his parents were dead. What friends and family she had would not be very understanding about her wanting to marry a mysterious stranger all of a sudden.

He noticed how Mina touched the new golden ring on her index finger, and he had to summon up all his self-control not to flinch. Elentar had never bought rings before, but somehow, maybe simply because it was all he had, he had imagined that the money he had saved for more than a year should have been enough to buy a handsome pair of rings. He had been saving for a tent, to make the rough life outdoors a little easier. For a home. The money was all he had. It should have been enough. But of course it had not been enough.

He had been careful and had asked to be shown only the cheapest rings. "We're looking for nothing fancy, just a trifle." And how it had hurt to say that, because he was looking for so much more than a trifle.

It had been a disaster, of course. The rings had to fit on their index fingers, but all the betrothal and marriage rings were designed to be worn on the ring finger, so they had ended up with the man's rings of two different sets.

"Oh, you are looking for _friendship_ rings," the shop assistant had exclaimed. "I did not know that people still do that, what a lovely idea!" And she had smiled at him and tried to flirt with him. He did not know what to say and in the end he'd kept silent, painfully aware of the hurt expression on Mina's face.

Then – because the rings were from two different sets – they were a little more expensive than advertised, and even when he had put all his money on the table, down to a handful of cents, it had not been quite enough, and Mina had had to pay the rest of the small sum.

The books on pregnancy she wanted to have, she had had to buy with her own money. He did not know what hurt him more – that he did not have the money to buy her those books, or that no one thought he might be the father… Just like the lady in the jewellery shop, they did not think even for a second that he might be Mina's partner, looking considerably younger than she did, and so different from her rather conservative outfit in his leather pants and dreadlocks.

When Mina had acquired a stack of books she wanted to browse through before deciding what to buy, the shop assistant had brought Mina a glass of apple juice with water and then continued to ask, "Can I get your brother anything?" And then she had thrown him a hopeful look, inviting him for a chat or more…

A mumbled reply of "No, thank you" was all he had managed, and he had not dared to look at Mina…

Without noticing, he had switched from the Beatles to Bach. Complex instrumental pieces were more soothing than the sweet songs of contemporary popular music to his mind. Although today there likely was nothing that could soothe his mind.

The ring felt awkward on his hand.

He stopped playing.

"I… I… Mina, I'm so sorry. I wish… I wish this were different… And I never asked you… about your family, and… your faith… I don't know if… I think most women… If you want a church wedding…" he broke off, wondering how his mother would have wanted him to get married. Of one thing he was sure, this was not the way his mother had envisioned it.

Mina did not reply at once, and she did not turn around so she could look at him when she spoke to him, the way she usually did.

"My parents are dead, Elentar, and I'm an only child. My mother died in a car accident when I was still very young, and my father died after a heart attack five years ago. I don't think my friends would understand… and we hardly can get more married than we are now, can we?"

Her voice was quiet and reasonable, as she always was. But there was a hint of pain in her voice that cut right through him.

"I'm not sure of my faith," she added almost as an afterthought. "I've considered myself an agnostic for the longest time. But now… maybe I ought to believe in Eru… His ways are certainly even more mysterious than the Christian God I was raised to believe in."

Elentar did not know what to reply, and so he did the only thing he could think of. He started playing again.

The music changed again, this time into Sindarin. It was a long, lovely ballad, but Mina was too tired to catch more than every third word or so. Wondering if her child would ever hear words in this language spoken by another elf, Mina finally drifted off to sleep.

She never noticed how Elentar carried her into the bedroom and spread the covers carefully over her body, before slipping into bed next to her and gently putting his arms around her.

**oooOooo**

A few weeks later, Mina slumped down on the sofa with a sigh.

Elentar was still too wired to sit down.

They had just returned from their appointment with Mina's gynaecologist.

"It's curious," she said. "I can feel her, even though she's just a tiny bud at the moment. So I know that I'm pregnant, I know it as probably no other woman knows. And still…" She waved the sheaf of papers her doctor had provided her with. "This makes it feel more real. I feel silly about that."

Elentar stopped pacing and smiled at her. It was only half a smile, but at least he did not try to say "I'm sorry" anymore.

"It's not silly. I feel the same. As a matter of fact, I'm feeling pretty nervous now."

Mina felt her lips twitch into a grin.

"I can see that. But it went well, don't you think? The doctor is all happy with us. He doesn't think there will be any problems no matter that I'm already 37."

"Yes," Elentar agreed and then affected a scowl. "At least no one tried to mistake me for your younger brother."

Mina snorted. In a way it felt strangely good how much it offended Elentar if people did not perceive them as a couple at once. He was more than a little possessive, and somehow she enjoyed that.

"How about some tea?" she asked. It was obvious that Elentar would need some time to calm down.

"Rooibush." It was a statement, not a question. Elentar knew the books about nutrition during pregnancy Mina had bought by heart.

"Yes, please."

Elentar rushed off to the kitchen, Mina stayed where she was, her hand resting lightly on her stomach, feeling for the presence of her daughter. There she was, still not much more than a seed, but already much bigger than she had been, even though she had to be maturing more slowly than a purely human foetus.

Mina sighed. She felt restless.

They needed to talk about what they would do. In a few months she would not be able to try and find a way to Middle-earth anymore. Elentar seemed willing to settle down to a life with her here in Berlin without giving the alternative any thought. He had accompanied her to the university one day and returned with three students taking private guitar lessons… and not just any students, but students of the university for music. It was not that she was not happy for him, or that she could not see him becoming a professor at said university for music eventually. She knew that they could live a happy life that way.

But for some reason that did not feel right to her.

She shook her head.

It would be a good life! They could teach their daughter Sindarin and read "Lord of the Rings" with her.

No.

That felt completely wrong to Mina.

"It's not how it's meant to be for us," she whispered.

Elentar put down the cup in front of her. His eyes were serious. He had heard her. With a sigh of his own, he settled down in the chair and faced her.

"We have to talk," he said.

At last! Mina felt a palpable wave of relief washing over her.

"Why do you feel it would not be right to raise our daughter here? There's a comfortable future within our grasp! You feel it, and I feel it, too. You know it can be exactly the way you see it."

There was a strange emphasis on certain words. Mina's mouth suddenly felt dry.

"Exactly as I see it? What do you mean with that?"

"We talked about naming traditions among the Eldar, remember? Mother-names are called 'names of foresight' not without cause. Pregnancy may awaken a gift of foresight in Elven women. And I can see that it is that way with you."

"How can you see that?"

"In your eyes," Elentar replied softly. "I can see it in your eyes."

Mina shivered. Then she gritted her teeth. It was useless to try and imagine their life as ordinary, for it was not. Elentar was not a human music teacher. He was an elf. And their daughter was not human either.

She inhaled deeply, but she did not speak. Whatever they ended up deciding, it had to be a decision they reached together, and she knew if she spoke first, Elentar would never say what he was really thinking.

He could not stay seated, but jumped up again and began to pace the room. Back and forth, back and forth… Mina drank her tea and watched him.

Finally he stopped pacing. He stood at the window, staring into the bright spring sunshine outside. She noticed that the tips of his ears were slightly flushed with his agitation. He had taken to wearing his hair in a ponytail in the apartment because of her "ear fetish" as he called it. Living with Elentar was not exactly easy, Mina mused. But there were compensations.

"You really believe that there is a way back, do you?"

That was quite unexpected. Mina almost inhaled her tea. She had not realized quite how troubled Elentar was, expecting him to lead up to the discussion in his more usual cool and distant manner.

She forced herself to reply as the reasonable, if slightly eccentric, scholar she used to be.

"Yes, I do. You are here; Lothíriel and your mother found a way to Middle-earth. Gandalf appears to be able to travel back and forth easily. Someone from Middle-earth apparently wrote these books, and it may well be that someone else from Middle-earth was involved in making the movies. Obviously there is a way to cross the Void."

"I never expected to be able to go back," Elentar muttered and sat back down on his chair. "I never expected…" He looked at her, and the fire in his eyes took her breath away.

"I didn't either."

He opened his mouth to say "I'm sorry" once more – then decided against it.

"I won't say that I'm sorry again," he said, acknowledging the hint of anger that must have been clearly visible in her face. "Because I am not. I –"

And still he could not say it. Three words that meant so much. Mina turned her head to the window, unable to conceal her disappointment.

"I wish things were less difficult between us."

"But they are not." Mina could not keep the irritation she was feeling completely out of her voice.

"No, they are not," Elentar acknowledged. "I'm scared, Mina."

She could only guess how much it had cost him to admit that much. She felt her eyes stinging with emotion.

"The Fates never said that you would not be able to return."

"No, they did not. But still…"

"Do you remember how unhappy you were as a boy? The only one of your kind in all of Middle-earth?" she hated asking this question.

"Yes, I most certainly do." An answer through clenched teeth. "But our daughter will not be like I was."

"That is true. Our daughter is not you. Actually, if what you say about the foresight of mothers of the Eldar is true, then I know she will not be like you. She will be able to be happy here. But would it be fair towards her? An immortal life all alone with her father? Without any chance of meeting her own people? Of growing up with children that are like her? Elentar, you have to realize that while I am not too old to have a child, it is very likely that I am too old to see an elvish child grow up."

Mina stopped, her heart racing, her throat tight. She did not want to think about that. It hurt so much. Her daughter would be an adult when she turned fifty. And while she could probably live to be eighty-seven with a bit of luck, she would not be able to throw the kind of party a daughter deserved upon reaching majority.

Elentar covered his eyes with his hands.

"What do you propose that we do?"

Mina exhaled in a sigh. "I think our best bet is working our way through the various Tolkien archives. We can start with the one in Eichstätt while I make arrangements for a trip to England. Good thing that the spring holidays have started. They are open in the morning and in the afternoon until four o'clock."

"And you really think we'll find anything there?"

Mina shrugged. "I don't know. But we have to start somewhere."


	18. Fancrone

**Disclaimer: **The letters mentioned in this chapter are a product of my imagination, they were never written in real life.

**oooOooo**

**18. Fancrone**

Mina leaned back in her chair and rubbed at her eyes. She was not sure if it was due to her pregnancy or simply to the long hours they spent at the library each day, but she was tired. Probably a bit of both. She felt as if she could lie down for a nap right then and there.

Napping in the library, she grinned wryly. Surely a time-honoured activity…

The library building that housed the Tolkien archive was situated on the outskirts of the small baroque town of Eichstätt, nestled in between tall, ancient trees and overlooking the meadows of the park at the edge of the river. It was small and quiet, filled with the comforting dusty scent of books and the warm quiet of slow breaths spent studying all day. Because it was an old, and an old-fashioned, library, there were still books in the reading room. Three walls of the room were taken up with shelves reaching from the floor to the ceiling. You could simply walk along the shelves and pick up whatever you were interested in, take it to your desk, sit down and read. In the storing room around the corner was a copy machine that was ridiculously cheap compared to what the university of Berlin charged.

When they had asked to see the Tolkien archive, the librarian had been grumpy at first. "It's mainly letters and scholarly material, from the Inklings – nothing to do with the movies, nothing fancy at all. We only have it because one of the presidents of this university was a member of the Inklings." Apparently rabid fans had disrupted the quiet life of the librarian when the movie hype had been going strong.

Mina had only smiled and nodded. "I know. I work for the German Tolkien Society, and my assistant and I are preparing a booklet for our annual conference."

She had produced her ID and watched how a smile had spread on the face of the old man. He had ushered them to a desk right at the window – "Better light over here." – and insisted on getting the fat catalogue with the references to the archived material down for them himself, swaying precariously on the ladder.

Unfortunately, the librarian had been right. While the archive certainly held a number of scholarly treasures, the statement that it was "nothing fancy" was undeniably true. And yet, somehow Mina felt that if they were going to find something, it would be here, or in another collection away from the beaten tracks of Tolkien research.

"It would help if we knew what we are looking for," Elentar whispered, putting down another few pages of gilded paper filled with the sprawling handwriting of one of the Inklings. Initially undaunted by what had been described as a "box with letters" to them, they had decided to go through the complete correspondence of Inklings that was available in the archive.

Mina sighed. That was a part of the problem. They had no idea what they were looking for. "It would be nice if we came across a set of simple instructions, wouldn't it? But I don't think so." She cast a baleful eye at the stack of papers on her side of the desk.

"One more letter," she murmured, "And then I think we'll call it a day."

Elentar nodded and turned back to his own stack.

Mina reached for the last papers on her "to do" heap and settled down to read.

"…our friend Ronald (Tolkien) is finally getting old and a bit weird, it seems. After the death of his wife, he has become more and more solitary and reclusive. Last week I spoke with his publisher, and he complained about some of the old gentleman's extravagancies. Apparently he has given a gift of three purebred Siamese cats (or another noble breed) to an admirer of his works. A spleen of an aging writer, you might say. But you know as well as I do that our good Tolkien does not even like cats. If anything he is what we call a dog person. The publisher told me that the old chap insisted on having instructions for their care prepared by his solicitor (!), and the gift was only to be executed if the lady signed those instructions, vowing most solemnly to do everything as he ordered it in those papers…"

Mina frowned. This was indeed odd. Tolkien's attitude towards cats had sparked many discussions among the cat-lovers in Tolkien fandom. Did he hate them? Or was he simply not a "cat person"? The feline imagery in "The Lord of the Rings" seemed to suggest that he was not a great friend of cats. And, of course, the tale of the "Queen Berúthiel" as it was mentioned in a footnote of "Unfinished Tales". But of course there was also that cat poem he had written, which was quite friendly and funny. At least it did not speak of any particular hatred towards the feline race.

And there was something else about cats, something she felt she should know, but she did not quite remember it. Mina glanced at the date and origin of the letter again and at the address. Maybe there was a reply somewhere in the archive? Or a follow-up letter?

She looked at her watch and shook her head. It was too late to request another item from the archive. Slightly annoyed she bent over her notepad and wrote down the information she would need on the next day to request the rest of this particular correspondence.

Then she got up and went to make a copy of the passage that mentioned this strange gift. Walking cleared her mind a little, but it also made her realize just how tired she was. If this got any worse, she mused, she would spend the rest of her pregnancy curled up in bed and asleep.

When she got back to their desk, Elentar was already cleaning up their days work, carefully stacking together the material that had to be returned to the archive. Mina gathered their notes and photocopies together, and within ten minutes they were ready to go, just in time for closing. The librarian wished them a pleasant evening, asking diffidently if they were satisfied with their progress.

To Mina's surprise it was Elentar who replied first, with a polite "thank you" and a few friendly words about the weather.

As they were walking along the river on the way back to the centre of the city, Mina dared to ask a question.

"I think you are really enjoying this work. Are you thinking about becoming a scholar after all?"

Elentar favoured her with his customary scowl. Mina chuckled. Sometimes even Elentar was predictable.

"I guess when all is said and done, I am my father's son," Elentar replied. "And my grandfather's grandson," he added as an afterthought. Then, unexpectedly, he reached for Mina's hand, holding it firmly, but gently in his right hand as they walked along.

"You are right. I am really beginning to enjoy this. Somehow… working with you, in this quiet little library, it's soothing."

For a while they walked along in silence, enjoying the spring sunshine and the sweet fragrance of new growth and delicate blossoms.

"I also like this place," he admitted, gesturing at the old buildings of the quiet town. "I feel less out of place. Not as lost. The passage of years seems to be slower here."

Mina smiled. Even though he was now very respectably dressed, he looked more out of place here than he had in Berlin. He was only so used to be looked upon askance that he did not even notice how much he stood out in this quaint little university town in the most conservative of the German states. But she could see that he was more relaxed here than he had been in Berlin.

"The rapid changes in Berlin during the last twenty years must have been difficult for you," she said. Time, the pace of the modern times and the perception of time in this day and age was quite a topic in science, for historians as well as for psychologists. The perception of time had changed dramatically during the last one hundred years. The speed of history, the speed of living had picked up. If ordinary people suffered from the pace, Mina mused, how much worse would that be for Elentar? But he had survived. He had been able to adapt to abrupt and dramatic changes of his life and environment.

"What are you thinking?"

She smiled at him. "That Tolkien, or whoever wrote those books, did not really get you right."

"Why?"

"Well, obviously you are adapting successfully to a world that is changing rapidly around you. Or you wouldn't be around anymore."

He laughed at that, but quickly grew serious again. "Maybe I'm simply too stubborn for my own good."

They turned around the corner and were now walking down a narrow lane between high walls of sandstone. Stonecrop was putting forth its first buds of the year in the cracks between the squares.

"I wouldn't know how it is for elves in general," Elentar went on, "if the passage of time is wearisome for them. I have never lived with elves, remember?"

There was a hint of pain in his voice. An echo of that pain seemed to cramp together Mina's stomach, cold and tight. She resisted the urge to reach into herself and draw strength from the peaceful growing of her daughter. But her determination to find a way to Middle-earth – and more specifically to Aman – was renewed. She did not want her daughter to grow up like that, so lost and alone.

At a loss for words, Mina did the only thing she could think of. She changed the topic.

"Did you find anything today?"

Elentar shook his head. "Quite some interesting gossip, but nothing that was in any way extraordinary. No easy instructions how to get from here to Aman in three days." He paused and glanced at her sideways. "But you found something, didn't you? In that last letter."

He was definitely more perceptive than an ordinary man.

"I'm not sure if it is anything. I'll have to try and find out if they have a reply to that letter and maybe a follow-up to it tomorrow. But yes, it was something. Something odd. About Tolkien."

"Odd? Odder than him writing about another world?"

"Oh, hush!" Mina released Elentar's hand, playfully swatting at him. He caught her hand with ease and drew her against him, kissing her irritation away.

"So what did you discover?"

"Discover?" Kissing Elentar tended to disrupt her concentration.

"Oh. Yes. It's a letter from one of the Inklings, a friend of Tolkien's. It was written sometime after the death of his wife. Tolkien's wife I mean. And the writer said of how Tolkien was finally getting a little strange in his old age. Apparently Tolkien gave a few cats to an admirer of his books, and not just any cats, but some very expensive breed, with detailed instructions on what she was to do with them. And he didn't even like cats!"

Elentar frowned at her. "While that does sound slightly eccentric, I don't see any connection to what we are looking for, to be honest."

Mina sighed. "Yes, I know. I said that I'm not sure it's anything. But there's something about cats and Tolkien that's bothering me. As if I'm missing a clue that's sitting right in front of me." She shrugged. "Maybe I'll get lucky tomorrow and find the follow-up letter. Maybe that will explain what I think I'm missing here. Let's talk about something else. What shall we do for dinner?"

They had a room in a small bed and breakfast with a lovely view of the wooded hills that surrounded the town. But that also meant they had to come up with plans for dinner every day. And although Eichstätt had some very nice restaurants, the variety was not quite up to the standards they were used to.

"Italian?"

Mina rolled her eyes. "Again? On the other hand, why not? I could have a lasagne…"

"Again?"

Mina's stomach rumbled, reminding her that she was eating for two at the moment.

**oooOooo**

She was in luck. The archive had a reply to the letter and, even better, a reply to the reply. Mina waited impatiently for the librarian to return from the archives with her loot. She all but snatched it from his hands and ran straight to their desk, eager to find out more about Tolkien's cats.

Apparently the person to whom the first letter had been addressed was a great cat lover and therefore openly curious about the strange gift of cats.

"Yes," she murmured, "That's exactly what I want to know, too. Why did he give those cats to a reader? And what were those instructions?"

Eagerly she thumbed through the pages to get to the follow-up letter.

The weather… a sermon at church… where was the reply about the cats?

There! At the very end.

"…I am glad I could amuse you with the tale about the feline gift our friend Tolkien gave to that long time admirer. Unfortunately I find myself not in a position to satisfy your curiosity. When asked about the incident – why he had invested such an effort into instructions about the treatment of a couple of cats (as your rightly remarked, my dear fellow, how difficult can it be to take care of cats, even if they are a special breed) – he merely shrugged and smiled.

'Not difficult at all,' he told me. 'As long as they are never let outside.'

He seemed to think this a great joke, which I have to say, I cannot share or comprehend. Maybe the breed is delicate in nature, so that they must not leave the confines of a house.

I hope this letter finds you well…"

Mina drummed her finger against her lips. Maybe there had been no clue after all. Maybe this was only an old man's folly, an eccentric way to say "thank you" to a faithful reader?

But still. There was something about cats.

Finally Mina shook her head and went to the shelf to look for "The Lord of the Rings" itself. Perhaps looking at the well-known story would make her realize what it was that she felt she was missing about this story.

_Cats…_ no cats in the index, and why would there be? There were no cats in LOTR, save for that silly song in the Prancing Pony and that saying about Queen Berúthiel's cats…

…Queen Berúthiel's cats!  
Mina thumbed to index II, "Persons, Beasts and Monsters".

Berúthiel, Queen. Book I, page 408.

She picked up book one and found page 408. There it was:

_"…he is surer of finding the way home in a blind night than the cats of Queen Berúthiel."_

Suddenly Mina remembered. Queen Berúthiel's cats had first appeared in LOTR in this short line, which was later explained by Tolkien as a reference to a well-known saying in Middle-earth, about how the cats of Queen Berúthiel would always find their way home, no matter how far away they were.

They always found their way home.

What was the reason for not letting cats outside, Mina mused. Of course the writer of that letter was right – purebred cats could have a delicate constitution that would not agree with being outside in the cold and wet. If you lived in the city, or near a big street, it would not be advisable.

Or… if you had just moved. Mina recalled a tale a friend had told her once, about a tomcat running back to its former home over the distance of many hundred kilometres.

They always find their way back home.

Would they even find their way back home if this home was not in this world at all?

Mina stared at the letter and the book.

_They always find their way back home._

What a fantastic idea! What a completely crazy idea!

"Elentar," she whispered, and she barely noticed how her voice was shaking. "I think I have something."

**oooOooo**

Mina put down the phone. Her head hurt. Her feet hurt.

"And?"

She shrugged, rubbing her temples.

"Well, Tolkien Estate will consider my request. That's the best I could get out of him. And I'd better get going with that booklet for the annual conference of the German Tolkien Society. If I don't have enough serious material to impress them with, we'll get not beyond the considering stage with them."

The alibi project that had helped them doing their research at the university library of Eichstätt was supposed to get them access to the secret vaults of the Tolkien Estate as well, or more precisely, access to the letters of instructions for the care of three cats gifted from one J.R.R. Tolkien to one Madeleine Archer, Stow-on-the-Wold, Cotswolds, in 1972.

"Since the movies came out, it's practically impossible to get anything out of them. Damn those rabid fan girls."

Elentar raised his eyebrows at her, but he did not say anything.

Mina glared at him as she realized that in a way "rabid fan girl" – well, probably rather "fancrone", since she was not really a girl anymore, was probably the correct expression for someone who was so madly in love with "The Lord of the Rings" that she had attempted translating it into Sindarin.

"Yes, yes, I know, if the shoe fits, wear it. Get used to it; you are married to a rabid…"

He grinned at her, quite impudently. Sometimes it seemed to Mina that at least what Tolkien had written about the "Osanwë Kenta", the mind-speech of the Eldar, was true. She was almost certain that sometimes Elentar could read her thoughts, though she herself did not experience anything similar where Elentar's thoughts were concerned.

"Go on," she said. "Say it out loud."

"What should I say?"

He reached for her and pulled her against him, his fingers digging firmly, but gently into the tight muscles of her neck and shoulders.

"Ahhhh…" She relaxed against him, enjoying the closeness of his body. She wished their bodies would get even closer, but since that first night, Elentar had carefully kept a certain distance. He held her often, kissed her, too. But not more than that.

"Ohhh…" It felt so good to have that painful tightness teased out of her muscles.

"Fancrone," she gasped and tilted her head back to receive a kiss.

"Whose?"

She turned around to roll her eyes at him more effectively. She loved the way the pointy tips of his ears peeked through the dark mess of his matted curls.

"Yours, of course."

**oooOooo**

It was Elentar's voice that woke her. Somehow she was always tired at the moment, and no day seemed to go by without at least one nap, sometimes even three. Mina dreaded the end of the holidays, when she would have to return to university, evening classes and her job at the Tolkien Society. How would they find the time to discover a way back to Middle-earth between jobs, pregnancy related fatigue and other exigencies of everyday life? And she would have to find a way to conceal the fact that her pregnancy would last three months longer than normal, and what if there were any problems because the baby was Elvenkind? And…

Elentar was speaking English.

Flawless British sounding English. Suddenly Mina was wide awake. Sitting up in bed, she tried to make out what he was saying.

"Yes, thank you, a faxed copy would be great. We appreciate that very much."

"Yes, of course we will send you a sample. Thank you very much for your help."

"Yes, if we have any more questions, we will call on you again. That is a most generous offer. Thank you again."

"Yes, and to you. Bye."

Elentar put the phone down, and only a minute later the phone rang again, and then the fax machine started printing noisily. Mina got out of bed and padded over to where Elentar was standing, his eyes on the fax. His thoughts probably worlds away.

Without turning, he said, "I still don't believe it."

They had not discovered anything even vaguely useful apart from the cat story. And Elentar did not like the cat story at all, claiming to be a dog person. Mina suspected that Elentar's reaction was more due to the fact that he did not really want to return to Middle-earth. Here, he was a stranger, and there was a very good reason for his loneliness, and the difficulties in his life. _There…_ as long as he had lived in Middle-earth, he had felt a stranger in his homeland.

"Was that Tolkien Estate?"

He nodded. "Apparently Christopher Tolkien remembered you." He raised an eyebrow at her suggestively. She only shook her head at him.

"Silly man doesn't even begin to cover it," she told him. "You… _elf!_"

But there was no real heat in her voice. She held out her hand for the fax.

"But it's good to know that Mr Tolkien remembers me. Now let's hope there's something useful in here."

"My dear friend,

I am sending this gift to you as a small token of my affection. You have always believed in my Middle-earth, and for this my heart goes out to you. What tales I had to tell about Arda and Aman, I have told; I doubt that what time is allotted to me on _this_ earth will allow me to finish the tale for which you have asked me repeatedly. Therefore, the truth behind the rumours regarding the Queen Berúthiel will probably forever remain hidden now.

In my present circumstances I find that I do not have the heart to tell this tale. I thank you for the kind sympathy you have extended to me, and I hope the company of these grey felines that you adore so much may ease your disappointment. Instructions for their care you may find enclosed in this envelope. Begging your patience, I shall repeat the most important rule in this note. I pray you to never let those cats outside. The fickle feline nature should without doubt, turn their minds towards their home instantly. And you and I are old now. Where they would go, we cannot follow anymore.

Maybe one day others may undertake this adventure.

I shall keep you in my prayers continually for such as they are worth.

Yours very sincerely,

…"

Elentar had been reading the letter over her shoulder. Now he sucked his breath in, producing a low whistle.

"Okay. You win."

Mina turned around to face him, her stomach suddenly fluttering with nerves. She felt weak-kneed and almost sick, as if she had just climbed out of a roller-coaster.

"We'll have to find this Madeleine Archer."

Elentar nodded. "Yes, I think so. But… if she was around Tolkien's age in 1972, I don't think she will be alive today. And although I do know the legend of Queen Berúthiel, I have no idea if those mythical cats live longer than ordinary felines."

Mina shivered, her hands and face growing cold with fear. "But… but… he said… the way he said it…" She pointed at the fax.

_"Maybe one day others may undertake this adventure."_

"Surely the cats will still be alive?" Her voice sounded pleading and helpless even to her own ears. She did not even try to blink away her tears. "Surely they are still alive… somewhere?"

Elentar exhaled the breath he had been holding and put his arms around her, pulling her into a firm, protective embrace.

"If there is a way back to Middle-earth, we'll find it, Mina. I promise."

**oooOooo**

**A/N: **the term "fancrone", coined by Alon, refers to any female fan-person who is no longer a teenager, and thus, no longer a fan girl. Fancrones of the world unite!


	19. England

**19. England**

"They'll never let me carry the child for twelve months," Mina stopped pacing, but only long enough to gasp out what was on her mind. She had done some more reading, trying to figure out how her pregnancy would be different to that with a completely human child. "They'll probably not even allow me to carry to the full term of nine months, at my age."

She slumped down on the chair and had to intertwine her fingers to keep from literally wringing her hands. "I should never have gone to the doctor so soon…"

Elentar sat down behind her, perching on the arm of the chair. He reached for Mina's shoulders and began to massage her gently, a silent effort to calm her.

But Mina was in no mood to be calm.

She jumped up again and resumed her nervous circling of the room.

"Maybe I could say that I will change the doctor? Or that we will move away? And then wait three months until I go to another doctor?"

She did not like that idea.

After another circle of the room, she shook her head, determined to think of something else. It would not be easy to conceal the unusual progress of her pregnancy from the overregulated German healthcare system. However, at the moment there was nothing she could do about it. So she turned back to her desk, where a stack of papers – the results of a few weeks of research – was waiting for her attention. _First things first._ Not that she had much hope she could do more about this second project than about the first.

It had been easy enough to find out when Ms Madeleine Archer had died (September 19, 1982, peacefully in her sleep). To find out what had happened to her cats proved to be more difficult. They were still in the process of trying to locate any descendants and getting the law firm that had drawn up the initial paper about those cats to talk to them. So far the fax they had been sent from Tolkien Estate had not been sufficiently persuasive, and Tolkien Estate had not yet reacted to their renewed pleas for more information.

She dashed impatiently at her eyes, burning with silly tears of anger and exhaustion, trying to calm herself by mentally reciting a paragraph from one of her new books. _"As your body adjusts to the pregnancy, the levels of hormones in your blood will change considerably. These adjustments may cause mood swings, anxiety attacks, unreasonable anger as well as periods of feeling elated and positively 'high'. All of this is completely normal…"_

"It's not unreasonable that I feel anxious," she muttered.

Elentar stepped next to her and laid a comforting arm around her shoulders.

"You have every reason to feel anxious, and angry," he said. "I only wish that…"

He trailed off.

Mina gave him a wry smile. Neither of them regretted their union. Both of them wanted their child. But damnit, things could have been a little easier.

"Maybe Tolkien Estate will call back tomorrow." Mina tried to sound hopeful. "Meanwhile we can count ourselves lucky that Mr Karstens is delighted at my initiative concerning this project. He sounds as if he's going to give me some extra money for this. I think he's already envisioning his preface and his speech about the project at the conference."

In fact, she would not be surprised if he had already an appointment with a photographer for a portrait picture that could be used in the book… But the additional money was more than welcome.

Elentar grinned. "My offer stands: I'd be delighted to teach your boss correct Sindarin."

By now he was familiar with all of Mina's gripes about Mr Karstens rather parochial attitude towards her Sindarin courses.

Mina smirked. "You just don't understand: it's not a real language, dear. No one can really _speak_ it. It is a great linguistic achievement, and it should be valued as an academic masterpiece."

Elentar's grin broadened, and suddenly Mina remembered how to smile, too. Apparently encouraged by her reaction, Elentar drew her against him and placed a gentle kiss on her forehead. It felt good to be touched, and to be held. She felt herself relax a little, and the tension headache seemed to fade.

"I hope we'll find some clue soon…"

**oooOooo**

Two days later there were no news and no clues.

"I think we'll have to go to England," Mina said and did not look at Elentar. In her mind she was already calculating the costs of the journey. Plane from Tegel to Heathrow, train from London to Oxford. The archives in the Bodleian Library were much more extensive than those in the Eichstätt archive. Maybe they could get a meeting with a representative from Tolkien Estate?

"I think we can afford it."

She tried to ignore the wounded look of Elentar. He had started contributing money to the household with his guitar lessons, but she knew that he felt it was not enough. It was awkward, and she did not know how to discuss that problem, especially when she really hoped that they would manage to reach his home world.

_And then what?_

She tried to ignore that thought, too, not quite successfully.

"I would like to visit the… grave of my mother," Elentar said.

She blinked, completely taken by surprise. She had no idea what to say to that. For a moment she hesitated, then she simply went to him and put her arms around him. It had been hard to lose her mother once. She did not want to imagine how it was to experience that twice.

He tensed, but he did not draw back. They kept standing like that for a long moment, holding on to each other in silence, lost in thought and worries…

To her surprise Elentar loved flying. He got the seat near the window, and he enjoyed every moment of his short time in the air.

"It's just so amazing, just look at this! You can see houses, and cars, they are only tiny dots! And now, there's the ocean!"

"Actually, that's only the Channel, but, yes, it's quite pretty. And look over there: the white cliffs of Dover!"

"Yes, I recognize that." He squeezed her hand happily. She had to admit that the landscape looked beautiful spread out below them in the sunshine. Mina did not mind flying, but she was not precisely a fan of this mode of transport. However, Elentar's enthusiasm was contagious. She leaned over to see what had him so delighted. They did have great weather for flying. With the sun so brilliant, and the air clear with springtime, the view was indeed breathtaking.

The trip from the airport to the station was surprisingly smooth. No overly long queues anywhere, and the ticket machines quite out of character and cooperative. Additionally, the train was on time.

"I take that as a good omen," Mina said and slumped down on her seat. "I can't remember a layover in London that went quite that well. I'm still pretty exhausted, though."

"Put your feet up," Elentar suggested. "It looks like the train will remain quite empty."

"We're too late for the morning commuters and way too early for evening rush hour. And it's the middle of the week. I can't believe that I managed to pick a good day for travelling."

Mina took her shoes off and curled up on her seat. She tired more easily, but apart from that she did not notice any uncomfortable side effects of the pregnancy yet. She was assiduous about taking the trace minerals and vitamins her physician had recommended.

"When was the last time that you visited England?" Mina asked. She envied him his flawless accent. Of course it helped that he had had several hundred years of time to learn the major European languages.

"During the war…"

"Should I ask which war?" The question was half-serious, half-silly.

Elentar sighed. "Good question. During too many wars; but, actually, I meant World War II. I… fought for the Allied Forces, you know."

"Did you live in Germany before… the war?"

"Yes." He smiled, but it was a painful smile. "It's the language you know. German was the language I spoke when I first fell in love in this world. It's the language I spoke with my first real friends in this world."

"Mozart," she said. She did not dare to speak of that other woman, the one he had loved and been betrothed with, who had died of the plague so many years ago. She shivered.

"Yes," he said. "That language and the music… I can't really say why, but it's what kept me in the area, if circumstances allowed."

Mina shivered as she thought of the circumstances he mentioned, the darkest days of her country's history. It was painful, but she had to admit that she was glad to hear that he had fought _against_ her country. She shook her head. Strange thoughts in an even stranger situation. Most of the time it was easy to forget who, and what, Elentar was. He looked so young, so handsome. So very _now_, with his dread-locks and faded jeans… it was hard to imagine him dressed in uniform, or in the frilly fashion of the 18th century.

"When did you come back?"

"As soon as the war was over and they let me go."

"I guess I should not ask what exactly it was that you were doing for the Allied Forces?"

Elentar's face changed a little, growing still and hard, reminding her – even more than the topic of their conversation – that he was not twenty-five or twenty-seven years old as his boyish looks intimated, but rather _four-hundred_-twenty-seven…

"I will answer any question you ask me, Mina. But there are some questions I would prefer that you don't ask, for your sake."

They fell silent.

**oooOooo**

Outside the Bodleian Library grey skies promised rain. The atmosphere was oppressive and no relief for Mina after spending hours in the stuffy, dusty atmosphere of too many books in a small room.

"Now that did not help us at all," Mina commented, leaning against the iron rails of the fence. Her temples were throbbing with the dull pressure of disappointment and stress. She tried to keep her overly emotional reaction under control. _It's only pregnancy related hormones that upset my usual equilibrium_, she repeated in her mind what had become something of a mantra to her.

Elentar sighed, an absent look on his face. They had not found any information about Tolkien's real identity, or about a possible passage from this world to Middle-earth. But they had spent the better part of the day – at least in their minds – in Middle-earth. She wanted to ask him about details, did he remember something about the things they had read, were the maps accurate, how was it really in Middle-earth? But she kept quiet.

"Let's go to the car, shall we? I think I've had enough for the day."

"Yes, absolutely," Elentar agreed. "You look tired."

She smiled at him in answer. Would that be a wry smile?

"Probably because I –am– tired. I'm glad you can cope with the steering wheel being on the wrong side of the car."

Elentar was not only comfortable with driving a car with the steering wheel on the right side, but also with driving on the left side of the road. Once in Oxford, they had rented a car which greatly increased their mobility.

"I think it's time for a day off," Elentar suggested. "How about driving around the countryside tomorrow? The weather is supposed to be better tomorrow. And the Cotswolds are beautiful in spring. We can visit 'Upper Slaughter' and 'Lower Slaughter' and see if we find a sign that says 'Attention, ducks crossing!'"

For a moment Mina stared at Elentar, speechless. It always took her unawares when a little thing, a casual comment, betrayed an experience of many hundred years. _You are being stupid,_ she scolded herself_. Even if he was an ordinary human being, there's no reason why he should not know his way around the English countryside._

But he was not, and she wondered when and how he had discovered the beauty of the Cotswolds, so reminiscent of Tolkien's descriptions of the Shire, for the first time. Although, that would not have been Elentar's impression, she realized. He had never been to the Shire, and it was more than likely that "The Lord of the Rings" had not yet been published when Elentar had visited the Cotswolds for the first time.

"We could visit the house that belonged to the late Ms Archer," Mina said finally. "Cecily Cottage, Stow-on-the-Wold. I've looked it up on the map; it must be at the edge of the town."

"It's a village, not a town," Elentar put in. "But yes, why not? We could get lucky and find someone there who remembers Ms Archer, and maybe knows what happened to her mysterious cats."

"Too bad Tolkien Estate could not come up with any more details about the connection between Ms Archer and Tolkien. But at least we'll get to see the complete letters the two of them exchanged. Letters of some twenty years of friendship. There should be something in there somewhere. And they have never really been studied, because they were in the possession of the late Ms Archer, so not even Christopher Tolkien knows what's in them." Mina sighed. "It's such a dratted case of good luck, bad luck. Good luck that the letters are there, and we get to read them Bad luck that Tolkien Estate has no idea what happened to those cats or Ms Archer's heirs." For a moment Mina was silent, chewing on her lip, weighing the chances of them finding any new clues. Then she turned to Elentar.

"You don't really believe that there's anything to those cats, do you?"

Elentar shrugged. "I don't want to hang my hopes on an old Gondorian proverb, that's all. And though I know that some cats grow quite old, twenty years or more, these would be closer to 50 than 40 years old now. That sounds rather unlikely, don't you think?"

"Just about as unlikely as an elf in Berlin," Mina snapped. He was the one with the pointy ears. By rights it should be her making sceptical remarks and not Elentar. Elentar just raised an eyebrow at her. She glared at him but did not say anything else. She was glad when they reached the car, and even happier when they were at their bed & breakfast. Maybe a nap would help her get rid of that headache.

**oooOooo**

They were lucky: the next day was the epitome of early summer in the Cotswolds. Soft sunshine, brilliant flowers, lush green meadows; hedges and hills gently undulating in a landscape where even the houses appeared to be somehow less than square and angular, as if their corners and edges were rounded.

"Idyllic," Mina said.

"Bucolic," Elentar replied with a relaxed smile. The day off had been a good idea.

"Tranquil." Mina grinned. Maybe they would be able to find a secluded spot behind a hedge to disturb the restfulness of the countryside? Elentar gave her a sideways glance. She quickly looked away, sucking in her lips, her cheeks flushing with heat. Was it possible that he could read her thoughts? Or was it simply obvious?

"Pastoral. How about lunch and a walk?"

"Okay." She could not really complain, could she? If he had read her thoughts, it was rather a sweet offer. And if he had not, it was still sweet.

"What do you suggest?"

"How about walking from Upper Slaughter to Lower Slaughter? The Washbourne serves a nice tea if I recall correctly. Out on the patio. And it's not far. About a mile."

"Sounds good to me." _If there are bushes we can hide behind on the way, that is._

Elentar shook his head.

"You can hear what I am thinking."

"I think we have to turn right here."

"I thought so before. But now I'm sure."

"Do you see a parking space?"

"Don't change the subject." But she did look around. "Over there?"

"Yes, I think we'll fit in there." He switched off the engine. When he did not look at her, Mina decided to continue her questioning.

"You can hear what I'm thinking."

Now he did turn to her. She was not prepared for what she saw in his eyes. How could one look say so much?

"Sometimes, yes."

She wanted to say 'I love you', but she did not dare to. It frightened him, and he would not reply with the same words, and then she would feel hurt no matter how he had looked at her only moments before. But she had to say something.

"Come on then, _melethron nîn_, time to earn our lunch!" She got out of the car, snatching up her camera. Elentar winked at her and threw a picnic blanket over his shoulder. Mina tried to keep her mind completely blank. When they had walked past the first row of picturesque limestone houses, Mina turned to Elentar again.

"Every thought?"

Elentar laughed, drew her into his arms and stopped her questions effectively with a long, lingering kiss.

The walk along the river was lovely, with blossoms unfolding in the sunshine almost while they were watching. Just as another kind of blossom was unfolding inside her body, much slower, almost imperceptible, but steadily all the same.

Somehow, as if it was the most natural thing in the world their fingers met and intertwined. They walked along in companionable silence, the warmth of their joined hands and the warmth of sunshine on their faces making it easy to forget all problems and questions that should be talked through.

Ducking below the low branches of a willow tree, Mina caught a glance at Elentar's face, and was taken aback at how serious he seemed all of a sudden. And of course he would not talk about it.

"What's the matter?" she asked, suppressing an urge to add 'And why is it that men (or elves) seemingly never can simply say what's up without being prodded?'. She did not need to be able to read his thoughts to know that he was contemplating to reply with 'nothing'.

"And don't say 'nothing', for I won't believe you."

Something changed in the way Elentar moved. The slight shift in posture told her better than words that Elentar was not happy with her tenacity. At least he had not released her hand.

"I am still not convinced that trying to reach Middle-earth is a good idea, Mina. I don't really belong here, but I did not really belong there, either. And I have not the faintest idea if and how we might reach Aman even if we manage to get to Middle-earth. And you would be a stranger in either land."

Mina wanted to draw away now. But she did not. She had fallen in love with Elentar, she had made love with Elentar, she was pregnant with his daughter, she was married to him. She owed it to him to listen to his concerns. And she could understand them, after all, even if she did not share them.

"I'm not sure how to explain this, Elentar. I… it's such a mess of fears, and feelings, and hopes and dreams…" she started in, stumbling over thoughts and words. "I know she will be Elven, just like you are. _You_ know that, too. I… Elentar, I'm 37! If she becomes an adult at 50, I'll most likely be _dead_! I want her to be somewhere, to grow up somewhere, where she has at least a chance to meet her own people. I don't want her to be… Do you realize that here she would probably categorized as 'retarded' because of maturing like an Elf?"

Now she did release his hands, because she had to brush tears from her eyes. "But she won't be retarded, not anymore than you were. She'll just be… an Elf!"

Mina hated being so emotional. But thinking of her daughter and of her daughter's father was a subject matter that could bring her to her wits' end in seconds, or so it seemed.

Elentar looked as if she had struck him in the face.

"I'm sorry," she mumbled. "I know I've said all that before."

"Maybe I needed to hear it again." He sighed, and reached for her hand again, in a gentle, apologetic gesture. "I don't think my parents knew what I was, at least not in the beginning. And my sisters were not born as _peredhil_. I have no idea why our child will be… an Elf, or how it is possible that you know about this even now." He paused.

"Mina, I'm simply afraid of returning. I – I have been dreaming of it, for many years, for a few _hundred _years! I'm afraid of where we might end up, when we might end up! There seems no guarantee about time and place of passage, and the thought of risking your life, risking our daughter's life – it keeps me awake at night!"

Mina leaned against him, trying to comfort him with her presence, just as she took comfort from the strong, quick beat of his heart, and the tiny presence within her.

"I think we need to have faith. Though I don't really believe in fate or destiny, it was certainly more than chance that we met, that we fell in love. If there's a God, if there's Eru, I think maybe there is an opportunity that only we can use. Maybe it's only my mortal hubris, but I can't help thinking that there's a reason for all of this." She bit on her lips once more, trying to come up with something to cheer Elentar up.

"And besides, it will be a splendid adventure! I always wanted to see a fantasy world for real!"

Elentar grinned wryly. "Yeah, you and my mother."

"This is it." Elentar switched off the ignition. The rest of the walk and especially tea at the Washbourne Hotel had been a success, even if the mood had been a little subdued. Driving on in the afternoon they had been lucky, the weather stayed fine and in Stow-on-the-Wold it had been almost easy to find their way to the remote corner of the little town where Madeleine Archer had lived.

Madeleine Archer's former home was a typical Cotswolds cottage, just as the name "Cecily Cottage" implied: friendly, dun coloured limestone walls, a blue door with a beater in the shape of a lion's head. White window frames, and a white wisteria, neatly trimmed just reaching for the blue gutters. As charming as it could be. In front of the house, a very dirty jeep was parked carelessly askew. And a sign that said "Beware of the Dog" shattered any hope Mina might have harboured of the mysterious cats still being in residence.

The sign on the door was new and shiny: "Elaine Tarnost, GP"

Mina frowned. So a doctor was living here now. A family doctor and general practitioner. Somehow the name sounded familiar, but she could not quite place it.

"Tarnost, Tarnost… does that ring a bell with you?"

"Yes," Elentar replied. "In Middle-earth it is a fortress, situated north of Dol Amroth and south of the river Ringló. Is that a common name here?"

Mina shook her head. "I don't think so."

She bit down on her lips, her stomach suddenly in nervous knots. _That doesn't have to mean anything,_ she chided herself.

"Shall we see if she's home?"

Mina nodded. "Good idea. Can't hurt to ask a few stupid questions."

She inhaled deeply and was secretly grateful for the reassuring squeeze of her hand that Elentar gave her, as they went for the blue door.

"Is there no bell?" She looked dubiously at the beater.

"Over here." He pressed a button that was almost invisible in the shadow of the wisteria. The deep echo of an old-fashioned doorbell rang out. There was no other sound, especially no noisy yapping of the dog the sign warned off. For a long moment nothing happened, and Mina was ready to sigh and turn back to the car when the sound of a door opening and closing inside the house, and quick steps advancing to the door made her hesitate.

Then the door opened.

A woman stood facing them in the small hallway that was separated from the rest of the interior by a white door with glass panes. The woman was tall and slender, almost delicate. She wore her hair very short and spiky, almost like a punk. Faded blue jeans and frayed, grey sweatshirt, and a very direct gaze from clear, grey eyes.

"Hello. Can I help you? If you need a doctor, Dr Curlew is on call today, the white house next to the church." Her voice was surprisingly deep. Something about the way she spoke reminded Mina of Elentar. It was not an accent, but rather a certain melody of speech, the way you would recognize Irish people by the gently rounded syllables of their manner of speaking. The strange thing about this was that Elentar had this special melody of speech no matter which language he spoke, German, English or Sindarin. But for now Mina had no time to ponder this peculiarity.

"We don't need a doctor, thank you. I am Wilhelmina Elbenstern," Mina said. "And this is my husband, Elentar."

"Nice to meet you." The woman's gaze turned positively piercing, but she shook first Mina's then Elentar's hand with a firm grip.

"I'm Elaine – Tarnost. If you are not looking for a doctor, what are you looking for?"

"I – uh." Mina fidgeted uncomfortably. How to explain the story without sounding completely weird?

"It's a bit complicated, and it may sound a little strange. I don't know if you are familiar with the author John Ronald Reuel Tolkien? The author of 'The Lord of the Rings'? I work for the German Tolkien society, and I'm preparing a booklet for the annual conference."

Elaine frowned. "And that brought you here?"

Mina laughed nervously. "Sounds strange, doesn't it? But yes. Many years ago a Ms Madeleine Archer lived in this house, a deep admirer of Tolkien's works and friend of the writer. After his wife's death, Tolkien gave a strange gift to Ms Archer, three grey cats. We are trying to find out what happened to them and why he gave them to the old lady."

"For a… brochure? For an academic conference?" A delicately slanted eyebrow was raised questioningly, but Elaine Tarnost did not look at Mina. She stared at Elentar.

"Yes, exactly. And I could not find out what had happened to the cats or any further details, so I thought we'd stop by, and… uh, maybe ask whoever lives here, now, ask you… if you happen to know anything about the previous inhabitants of the house." Mina swallowed, feeling awkward. "That is, if you don't mind, and just in case you know anything, I mean, I have seen the sign about the dog…"

This made Elaine finally look at Mina. She laughed, a deep, dry laughter. "Oh, I have no dog. A friend thought I should have that sign to scare away burglars, living on the edge of the village as I do." Then she suddenly grew serious.

"I think I may be able to help you. If you would like to come in?" She stepped back to invite them into the house.

"Oh, thank you!" Mina almost gasped with happy surprise, finally loosening the vice-like grip she had kept on Elentar's hand. "That's most kind of you."

Elaine closed the door behind them before she went to the door with the glass panes.

"This way, please. And careful."

She opened the door to reveal three sleek grey cats with brilliant green eyes that seemed to have waited for a chance to sneak outside.

"You see," Elaine said. "The cats are still here. I got them with the house when I moved here from London two years ago."


	20. Cats and Dogs

**20. Cats and Dogs**

Elaine led the visitors into the living room, trying not to stare at the young… man. No, not a young man. She had not seen that kind of bone structure, that kind of gracefulness in a very long time, but she – like anyone else who had ever seen one of the Firstborn – would never forget it. Elf, not man. Immortal, not mortal. And delicately pointed ears hidden somewhere under that mess of dreadlocks. An elf with dreadlocks?

"Please, sit down. Can I offer you a drink?" Elaine looked at the woman. Wilhelmina Elbenstern: Tall, dark hair, with a few early streaks of silver. A little haughty, a little brittle. In her thirties, she thought. Very smart, very cool. And – pregnant. It was not yet visible, except in the careful way she sat down, and the way her gaze turned inward for a fleeting moment. Elaine felt her eyebrows shoot up. Was it his child?

"Tea, water, a glass of beer or wine?" She glanced surreptitiously at the… elf. An elf in her house. Here. In this world. In England.

"Just water for me, please."

His slightly worried look, lingering just a second on her womb. Yes, Elaine thought. That woman was carrying his child. A doctor's life has no room for hesitation or breathless gasps. She must take everything in stride. But she felt her surprise, even a bit of a shock, in one short, heavy beat of her heart. An elvish child. Here. In this world. In her house.

"And for you?"

He turned towards her with a polite smile that did not touch those extraordinary silver eyes. Eyes that reminded her of someone…

"I wouldn't say no to a beer, thank you."

"Make yourselves at home, then. I'll be back in a moment. Kittens, sit."

The cats stared at her for a second with a knowing expression in their green eyes, then settled down at a distance, so they could keep an eye on both the terrace door and the visitors.

In the kitchen, she stood very still for a moment, gazing out of the window at the rented car they had parked at the far side of the yard. The wood of the counter was warm with sunshine below her fingers; there was a faint smell of strawberries set aside for her dessert in the air and muted voices drifting back to her from the living room.

Two worlds and their peoples, fates interwoven… She remembered a poem she had read. It had compared love to a Tibetan rug. A good simile, she thought. Not only for love, for lives. A rugged weave of knitted, knotted, tangled threads.

She knew why they were here. There could be only one reason. Only one reason to search, and find, what had to be the last of Queen Berúthiel's cats. Cats that, as the legend tells, always find their way home.

Home.

Middle-earth.

Suddenly, her mouth felt curiously dry. Not _her_ home. She felt the once familiar sensation of tightness clutch her body. A feeling of being barely able to breathe. A feeling of not belonging, of always feeling out of place. Captured. Imprisoned. Too big, too noisy, too smart, too assertive, too ambitious for the time and place she was born in. But not smart enough, not ambitious enough, not _strong_ enough to shape her world around her, to cut her position out the way she wanted it. Not a Finduilas. Only Elaine.

She inhaled deeply and turned to the cupboard. For a moment she hesitated, then she got out two mugs and a water glass. She certainly needed a glass of beer now. Probably rather two. The voices stopped talking. For a moment it was completely quiet in the house. A lovely, sunny afternoon in early summer. She picked up the tray and returned to the living room.

"Here you go."

She settled down in her favourite armchair and took a deep swallow. It was tart, and dark. Her favourite kind of beer. The cats seemed to be waiting for something. Suddenly, she felt sorry for them. They probably felt just as imprisoned and captured here as she had felt in Middle-earth. Not for very much longer, she thought. And how had Tolkien known about…

Elaine stared at her beer, then she lifted her head and looked at her guests. Both of them were uncomfortable. The elf was positively fidgeting, something she had not encountered in his species before. The woman was trying to build up her courage to speak. For a moment she wondered if she should let them come up with a polite and sensible explanation of just why they wanted the cats… and for what. She could feel her mouth begin to curl up in a smile. It would be entertaining, no doubt. But it would also be cruel. And stress was not good for babies. And there was something else, something about this Wilhelmina, something she should know…

"You want the cats," she said suddenly. "You want them to lead you to Middle-earth. But do you have any idea _where_ in Middle-earth their home is? Or when?"

He put down his glass with a solid thud, spilling a little on his hand. He did not say anything, just stared at her. Without thinking, he brought his hand up to his mouth to lick off the beer, but his eyes were suddenly on fire and his gaze did not waver. Again there was that breathless sigh inside her that said "elf, not man, not man at all". She gave him her professional smile, cold and elegant. And turned to Wilhelmina. The woman had gone pale, her hands – the instinctive gesture of all mothers-to-be – curled protectively over her abdomen.

"Elaine Tarnost," the woman said in a low, clipped voice, a voice that sounded as if she was trying to force her brain with each word she spoke to deal with what she had heard. "Elaine _of_ Tarnost."

And then, something that looked like a flicker of recognition in her eyes. Elaine frowned. She was sure that they had never met before.

"Have we met before? I should think I would have remembered you."

"No, no, we've never met. But…" She sucked her lips in, a nervous gesture. "I – I think I read about you."

"About me? I had no idea I was in those dreadful books!" Elaine was genuinely shocked. A short laugh made her turn towards the elf. The fire faded from his eyes as a wry grin tugged at his mouth. "I did not like them, either. Especially the dialogue."

Elaine felt her eyebrows rise again, a tightness across her forehead. "I never read them. I guess I did not miss out on much."

"Not if you are who I think you are," interrupted the woman. "Because if you are, then you were there – in Gondor, during the War of the Ring. If you are the healer who became one of the ladies-in-waiting of Queen Lothíriel of Rohan. Formerly Lothíriel Elbenstern from Erlangen."

"Elbenstern!" Elaine's temples prickled, her muscles tightened for a moment – a doctor couldn't jump, couldn't start at every surprise or disturbance. Lives depend on that. She slowly released her breath. "That's why. I thought there was something about you I should have recognized. Your name: Wilhelmina Elbenstern."

"Just Mina, please."

"Mina, then. Are you a relative? Do you have any news from the queen?" How easy it was to slip back into those phrases! Why could she not simply ask, 'Do you have any news from Lothy?' But she had never really been 'Lothy' to her, except maybe once or twice, when the children were born.

"Not really a relative. My uncle, my father's brother, married Lothíriel's mother. She was adopted when she was still a small child. And…" Mina hesitated. "I wouldn't really say I have news. But her mother got a package one day, with her diary. It runs from the day Lothíriel left Erlangen right up to bidding farewell to Gandalf in Rohan, when she asked him to convey this diary and letter to her mother. And because I am interested in Tolkien… I study his – " Mina glanced at the elf at her side, the skin across her cheeks tightening and acquiring a touch of colour. "Because I study the _Elvish_ languages, Lothíriel's mother thought I would believe her, that I would be interested in reading the diary. – So you _are_ Elaine of Tarnost, are you?"

So the wily, old wizard had played postman. Who would have thought! "I never knew," Elaine said. "Those weeks were so busy." It had been such a relief to leave Gondor. And she had enjoyed the company of the young women she had been travelling with: Éowyn, Lothíriel, Sorcha… Arwen, of course, had not been young anymore at that time.

She turned back to Mina. "I'm sorry, my thoughts drifted off for a moment." A pause. "Yes. I was Elaine of Tarnost, Prince Imrahil's niece."

A barely audible sigh brought her attention back to the elf. "And who are you? Or should I ask _what_ are you?"

He had himself under control again; his face and posture gave nothing away. Raising his glass to cheer her, she caught a slight sparkle in his eyes. Amusement? Respect?

"Very good, Elaine of Tarnost."

She felt her eyebrows shoot up again. "Just 'Elaine', please."

Now he was grinning. Grandstanding! Maybe there was a touch of man in this one, after all? "Elentar was the name, wasn't it?"

The grin faded, replaced by a solemn expression that was too old for his young face. "Elentar Elrohirion," he replied in a soft voice. "Born in Esgaroth, in the year 325 of the Fourth Age."

"Ahhh…" She could not quite suppress a low whistle. "Then I was right: it's time _and_ place you need to worry about."

"But you would give us the cats?"

She turned around, following his gaze. The cats lay sprawled out between the chairs and the terrace door, ignoring them in the casual, elegant way of the feline species. Why had Tolkien given them to Ms Archer before he died – or disappeared? And there was the other legacy left in this house supposedly to pass on when the time was right.

Elaine leaned back in her chair, using the moment the attention of her visitors was distracted by the cats to study them once more. They were worried and nervous, both of them. Why was he here in this world? And why were they looking for a way back now? Because of the baby? There had been no instructions, nothing like you read about in fantasy books: keep the cats and this scroll safe until an elf with dreadlocks comes knocking on your door… The sale of the house had simply come with the condition to keep the cats and not to let them outside, and to keep the scroll in its box up in the attic. To be exact: to keep the box that contained the scroll up in the attic and not throw it or its contents away. That had been all. And it had almost been enough for her to pass up on the deal.

No instructions, nothing that would help her make this decision. Just the most uncomfortable feeling of threads of life, fate (and love probably, too) tangling up right in her lap. Had he left his home voluntarily, she wondered, or had he been forced to come here. Just because she herself and the queen – Lothíriel – had left their original worlds on their own accord, did not mean that he had. One thing was certain; he was no fool. And that quiet woman with the sharp grey eyes wasn't, either.

"If that is what you wish. Yes."

Mina sagged with relief, anxious tension visibly flowing out of her body. Elentar Elrohirion – she remembered his father or his uncle: dark, dark hair, flashing silver eyes – curled his hands around his glass. He was not relieved. Instead, his reaction seemed to be quite the opposite of his mortal wife, at least as far as Elaine could tell.

"Thank you."

She nodded, remembered that there was still beer in her glass and sipped. "Would you like to tell me why? Why are you here, and why are you looking for a way back?"

Her visitors exchanged a quick glance, then Elentar inclined his head. A graceful, accommodating gesture at odds with his hairstyle and faded jeans.

"It will take a while."

It took long enough for them to eat a generous supper and for the sun to go down. Only when she put her flowered mugs on the table, strong, black coffee for Elentar, decaffeinated for Mina, cappuccino for herself, the story was done. The only sound in the room was the tinkling of spoons in fine porcelain.

Mina stopped stirring, opened her mouth as if to ask a question, started stirring again. Obviously she wanted to ask something about Elaine's story, but was not quite sure if her question was too curious or perhaps not quite polite. Elaine waited.

"So you simply found the wizard, and asked him to move to this world?"

"It was not really simple, but essentially that's what I did."

"And he simply –" Elentar stopped midsentence, shaking his head. "He granted your request?"

No, he had not simply granted her request. But in the end, he _had_ helped her come to this world. "I am here."

"Quite a story."

"Yours, too."

Elaine grinned. "If you say so."

Elaine put her spoon down with a little sigh. Telling all those stories had somehow created a bond between them. Not much of a bond, of course, after having met only today; but she did not feel as if she had been sucked into the tangled mess of the lives of strangers anymore. Instead she wondered where the thread of their lives would run. How their story would turn out.

"If you meet that wizard, send me a postcard or something."

Elentar chuckled. But the smile did not reach his eyes, not even his cheeks, when he replied, "Of course."

For a while no one said anything, it was the silence of coffee being drunk too quickly, with too many thoughts stirred in and up. A dense silence. Only the cat coming to look for food was not bothered at all.

"When do you want to leave? You will need to prepare your disappearance."

"A day or two should be enough. We only need to return the car to the dealer, get some equipment and check out of the hotel," Elentar said.

"You have put all your affairs in Germany in order already? Quite confident." Some would have called it 'foolish', Elaine mused. But she could understand them only too well. Once the decision to leave was made, it was hard to wait… and to wait…

"Not really, but we wanted to be prepared for the off-chance that we'd find the cats. And be allowed to follow them."

"We thought we'd masquerade as backpackers," Mina put in. "There's no use in trying to take too much with us. It would be too conspicuous, and we hope that we'll be able to find a village or a farm within a few days." But she was pale, and her eyes were dark. It was obvious that Mina knew it was a gamble. And she was risking not only her life, but that of her unborn child.

"There's a bus coming here from Stratford. I'd rather not pick you up, in case of investigations. When the authorities come knocking on my door, I want to be able to say that you came to me because of a twisted ankle. And to me and not Dr Curlew, because you already knew me… I do want to keep my job. After all, that's why I am _here_." The emphasis was on here, this world, not: here, in Stow.

"Yes, of course." Mina looked over to Elentar. "I think it's time for us to leave now. Will it be okay if we come back in two days? Sometime in the morning?"

"Make it around noon – I am entitled to a lunch break. You don't want to run into too many people on your way here. And my practice is quite busy."

Mina nodded. "That makes sense."

Elentar helped her up, and together they walked around the table to say goodbye to Elaine. "Thank you," Mina said. Her hand was cold. It had been a long day.

"Take it easy tomorrow," Elaine advised. "You'll need your strength."

Mina nodded, just a little too pale. Elentar put his arm around her.

"Goodbye, and thank you."

Moments later the sound of their car faded into the darkness of a gentle summer's night.

For disappearing into another world, it really should be a dark and windy night, Elaine thought and closed the door to the practice behind her. Time for lunch. They would be back today, any minute now. And she would let them have the cats, and hope that they would lead Elentar and Mina safely across the Void. She shivered at the thought. What a clichéd reaction! Especially on a day like this: it was another bright sunshiny day full with flowers and butterflies, the promise of a glorious summer, and a practice full with sniffling kids, and adults with various illnesses. Nothing serious though, this morning. Yesterday, however, she had to send an older man off to a special practice for oncology in Oxford, and she had a bad feeling about the case. She sighed, put down her gown.

Was it right to let them have the cats? Was it for them that Tolkien had given the cats to that Archer woman? What if she was not meant to give the cats to them? Damn it all to hell – when it came down to it, she was probably not even meant to be _here_ at all!

She walked down the hall, making sure that the cats were safely locked away in the livingroom and opened the door. They should be here any minute now. It was… Two rather conservative, not to say old-fashioned, backpacks and a guitar rested against her doorstep. Here already! Not old-fashioned enough, those backpacks, Elaine thought, smiling with the memory of Lothíriel's backpack, and her amazement at the colour and the fabric of it. Well, I don't think _those_ two will blend in no matter where they go. One of the backpacks was huge, the other medium sized. _Good._ Mina should not carry too heavy a load. But they really should leave that guitar. They were probably in the garden. Elaine walked around the corner. Yes. They were sitting on the terrace. Both a little pale, both a little too calm. The cats were sitting just behind the glass doors, their eyes glinting between the reflections of the flowering garden in the glass. As if they knew…

"Hello! I'm sorry that you had to wait. Are you all ready to set out?" That cheerful tone sounded not quite real. A little too professional. She did not even try to smile.

They rose to their feet, greeting her formally again, handshakes of cold, nervous skin, but firm, determined. Determined to be on their way – wherever that would lead.

Elentar carried their packs into the living room. There they stood, awkward, nervous, the cats twining around their legs, their tales lashing, sensing the excitement in the humans.

"Well," Elaine released her breath. "Well. I have something for you, Mina." She picked up a small package from the low living room table. It was camouflage coloured fabric, but lined with plastic inside. "It contains vitamins you should take, along with some medications I hope you won't need."

Mina had to swallow before she could reply. "Thank you." She sounded a little breathless. "You are doing so much for us."

Elaine smiled slightly. "I'm a physician, a doctor. That's what we do."

"Nevertheless," Elentar said. "Thank you very much. – They will let you keep the house, will they? Even with the cats gone?"

Elaine shrugged. "I'll cross that bridge when I get there. And if not – there are other pretty cottages around here."

He did not like her honest answer, but there was little he could do about it.

"There's something else." she said. "It was not only the cats that came with the house. There was also this."

She bent down to the table once more, bringing up a cylindrical object, roughly the length of her underarm that was carefully wrapped in a plastic bag. Mina frowned at the bag.

"Not the plastic bag, of course," Elaine snorted a little. "It's a scroll. It was in a box in the attic. The condition was that I don't throw it away. I'm not. I'm giving it to you."

"Why?" Elentar's hand nervously played with a pendant around his neck that looked like a small oyster.

Elaine shrugged. "I don't think it was meant for me. Maybe you'll find a use for it someday. Put it in your pack."

"Keep it secret, keep it safe," he muttered under his breath, as if he was quoting something. Probably those damn books.

"Do you really need that guitar?"

He looked up at her, from his crouching position, an awkward angle, and for a moment she caught a glimpse of a pointy ear.

"Yes," he said. "I'm a singer." He said it the way she would say 'I'm a healer' – or here: 'I'm a doctor'.

When Elentar straightened, there was no excuse left to delay their departure any longer.

"Put on your packs. Then I'll open the terrace doors. If those are really the cats that proverb speaks of, they will take you straight to their home. So, don't lose sight of them, if you can." Elaine picked up Mina's pack, just to make sure it was not too heavy. Satisfied that it should not overburden the pregnant woman, she helped Mina into the straps. Elentar looked too slender to carry the huge backpack along with the guitar, but he did not seem to notice its weight at all. Elaine's eyes lingered on the dreadlocks that still carefully concealed his ears. Elf, not man. She wondered if the child would have pointy ears.

"I wish you a good journey." Then, feeling quite fanciful, she bent down on her knees and stroked the cats, one after the other. "Have a safe trip home, little ones. And if you can, watch out for those two."

Elaine got up and walked briskly to the terrace doors. She opened them wide. Sunshine and a soft breeze flooded the room. The cats seemed to hesitate for a moment. She could almost believe that they looked their farewell at her with those shimmering green eyes. Then they trotted out onto the terrace and set off into the garden.

Elentar and Mina stared after the cats for a second, as if they could not really believe what they were seeing. Three grey cats bounding into a summery garden…

"Go," Elaine gave Elentar a little shove. "Follow them! Now! Quickly!"

Taking Mina by the hand, the elf hurried down the garden path where the cats were about to disappear between the high grass. Quickly they reached the little porch at the end of the garden, turned around the corner behind the hedge and were gone.

Elaine remained standing at the terrace door for a while longer. What an astonishing visit from the past… and the future, she mused. What would come of it? Maybe she would get a postcard one day. She grinned at the thought. If the old wizard was still around… if they managed to find him…

However, just like the fox who met two hobbits alone in the wilderness one night, many, many years ago, and in another world, who never found out the why and whereto of their business, Elaine Tarnost never found out what happened to her two visitors. But with the cats gone, she was finally able to get the dog she'd been wanting for a very long time.

**oooOooo**

* * *

If you have any questions, please visit my forum here at FFNet!  



	21. Following the Cats

**Chapter 21: Following the Cats**

They hastened through the garden. Elentar practically dragged her through the gate. Her heartbeat hurried, the straps of the backpack cut painfully into her shoulders. She felt adrift, as if caught in one of those nightmares where your feet are too heavy to lift, and the monster is coming for you.

When they were rushing along a narrow trail between fields and an orchard, Mina realized that the cats were not trying to get away from them, to escape from their sight. They were moving swiftly, as felines do. They ran in a determined way, as if they knew exactly where they were going, three grey shadows about thirty feet ahead of them. But they were not running away.

Mina relaxed slightly; her breathing grew a bit easier. A few yards down the trail she even took the time to brush a sweaty tendril of hair out of her face. An awkward, shaky gesture. Elentar was still holding her right hand. She realized it was useless to ask him to let go. He would only let go of her once they were wherever they were going, and not a second earlier.

"If someone sees us like that, they'll think we are completely nuts," she panted.

"I don't think we have many spectators out here," Elentar remarked dryly, his voice calm. He was not even breathing faster. "And if someone sees us, all they will see is a pair of hikers. Not all that unusual in the country of public footpaths."

"Do you always have to be right?"

But she had to smile. Walking began to feel a little easier. Now they were moving beyond the orchard, towards a clump of trees, a bit of a forest. Not much of a forest, just a few beeches, oaks, poplars and sycamores. It was a harmless, idyllic, open bit of English landscape. A landscape you would find painted on Rockingham porcelain, or maybe Wedgwood china, in delicate, easy colours. The idea of finding a way into another world between the sounds of bumblebees and larks, marching through air that was hot and sweet with resin and woodruff… seemed rather preposterous.

However, the cats certainly gave the impression that they knew exactly where they were going. And they were heading for the trees.

Elentar and Mina did their best to keep up with them.

Sunlight filtered through the leaves in flecks of green and gold. At the edge of the trail the white blossoms of strawberries peeked through the verdant green of spring grass. The path was a broad public footpath, firm ground with just a few low indentations where puddles would fill up when it rained. There was even a sign with the symbol of a white star nailed to a tree. But the cats kept going. Something tickled her nose, probably the pollens of some tree blossoms she was allergic against. She sneezed, closing her eyes for a moment. Blinking rapidly to clear her watering eyes, she frowned. A moment ago she'd been certain that they had almost passed through the small patch of forest. Now it looked as if they were just starting down the path _into_ the forest. And it looked much more like a real forest, not at all like the bright, spacious wooded areas of England.

She blinked again.

She couldn't remember having seen any fir or spruce trees when they had entered into the forest. But now… Up ahead the trees were growing denser and darker, and they were most certainly not beeches or sycamores budding with spring. They were firs, forbidding, tall, intimidating firs.

She clutched Elentar's hand. "Elentar, I think – I think – we're… we're not where we were!"

What had she expected? A gate filled with stars? A sudden, painful tumble into the void between the worlds?

"I think you are right." Elentar's voice was still calm, but there was a certain tension to his strides. His hand closed more tightly around hers. "Whatever happens, don't let go. And if you do let go, don't leave the path."

Mina glanced at the darkening woods. The trees were pressing in on them now. Heavy branches reached out across the path, blocking out sight of sun and sky until nothing was left of the bright spring afternoon. Sweat was suddenly cold on her skin; she shivered. Were those soft silvery shadows between the branches high above their heads spider webs or spin-offs of her overactive imagination?

"What if the cats leave the path?" The thought turned her stomach into the proverbial knots.

"Doesn't look like it, so far."

He was right. In fact, the cats seemed to have slowed down a bit, as if they wanted to make sure their pursuers didn't lose sight of them. They hurried on in silence for a while. Their path was turning into a tunnel between the trees. The ground was firm brown earth and swallowed the sounds of their footsteps almost completely. No white strawberry blossoms or yellow anemones here, no pea green spring grass, only moss, heather, and the glossy teal of whortleberry and bilberry bushes. And here and there, almost translucent, glittering with dew, a hint of gossamer. A cold drop of wetness from one of the low boughs overhead hit the back of her neck. She shuddered, resisting the urge to look up. If the backpack had not been so heavy, she would have drawn up her shoulders, trying to duck away from the low boughs. Her breath was hot with the exertion, forming small clouds of mist before her. Some shreds of gossamer between the trees seemed large as sheets.

"Is that gossamer or are those spider webs? Because if those are spider webs, then I don't want to meet the web-weavers. That's worse than that Harry Potter movie."

"Chamber of Secrets?" The grin was audible in Elentar's voice.

"Yes. And I'm sure you are aware that the Middle-earth lore that made it into my world contains some references to arachnids as well."

Bilbo's story was the first that came to her mind. Was it possible that they were already in Middle-earth? That this was Mirkwood? But when Elentar had been born, Mirkwood had long since ceased to exist. Elentar had verified that detail of Fourth Age history. He knew Mirkwood as Eryn Lasgalen, as Greenwood. Of course that didn't necessarily mean that there were no spiders in those Elvish woods anymore. If they ended up in a time after Elentar had left Middle-earth to begin with, that was…

And Frodo's encounter with spiders had taken place in the mountains of Mordor, not in a forest…

"I'm aware of that. But… Mina, if you don't mind, I'd rather not tarry long enough to find out just which of those references would be the most relevant."

An undertone of fear in his voice made her lengthen her steps again, her heartbeat picking up the rhythm, hurried, panicky. For a while she managed to lose all thoughts, concentrating on her steps, on her breathing, on Elentar's hand firmly holding on to her, on the cats still streaking down the trail ahead of them.

So there were woods between the worlds… dark woods… with spider webs like circus tents. She tried not to think about what other spider stories besides Bilbo's haunted the legends of Middle-earth. A name came to mind. Compared to the other spider stories, Bilbo's arachnid adventures were positively cute.

She quickened her pace once more. She did not want to drag along behind him in this forest. When she was hurrying along right next to Elentar, the almost painful pressure of his hand around hers lessened somewhat. In spite of the exercise his skin was cold. He was scared.

The trail was growing even narrower ahead of them. Soon it would be impossible to walk next to each other. She chanced a look up at the sky. But there was no sky, only the darkness of trees and the sense of silky strands floating from above. And still the cats were running along in front of them.

Her foot caught. She stumbled, went almost down. For less than a second she stared into the gloom between the tree trunks. For barely a breath she was looking into the eyes of darkness personified. Many eyes were hidden in the shadows, cold, dark, glistening eyes, gazing at her, watching her every breath, watching every blink of her eye, biding their time…

Then Elentar's iron grip pulled her up, dragged her on. Yelping with pain, she limped on as fast as she could. The leg was not giving out under her. She ignored the pain and started running.

The name.

"Are you ok?"

"I think so." She was gasping and the ankle hurt, but she didn't want to slow down again. She didn't want to stand still one second in these woods between the worlds. She bumped up her backpack a little, then narrowed her eyes to concentrate on their feline guides. In the twilight of the woods it was becoming difficult for her to identify the grey silhouettes of the cats.

"Can you still see them?"

A moment of panic made her shake even as she hurried along next to Elentar. The path was almost too narrow to run side by side, but she didn't want to be behind him or in front of him.

"Yes, easily. My eyes are… what did he call them? 'keen Elvish eyes'?" There was just a hint of derision in Elentar's voice. Elentar still didn't breathe faster. He sounded almost as if he was lying on the sofa in front of the TV. Almost. She must have come to know him very well, she thought, if she was able to detect that faint hint of fear in his voice, that crack of worry, that tart tinge of …

Terror.

"Will these woods never end?" Another memory. A song, a scene she had always enjoyed. She gulped. She knew in her guts that it was as ill-advised now as it had been then to sing about trees and darkness ending. She tried to unthink the name her subconscious had dragged up from reading the Silmarillion once too often. She tried to un-remember a memory of water-colour paintings that didn't do reality justice.

"I think it's getting lighter in front of us."

"Yes?" She mustn't think of the name. She mustn't think of the name. Of the meaning. If she did, it would… that was stupid. She was an adult woman. Only because she was thinking of the name of a nightmare wouldn't make that terror come true.

"Hurry, Elentar." Panic was washing over her now. She knew she was losing hold of the ability to distinguish between reality and fear, succumbing to primeval brain chemistry designed to have unreasoning panic save her life when cool logic failed. Elentar put his right hand over their joined hands, then let go with the left, so he could slip his left arm between her back and her pack. He was effectively pushing and dragging her along now. Ahead of them, the cats were picking up speed, sprinting sleek shadows, quicker than the night amassing behind them.

"Oh God," she gasped. The woods rustled around them with the hissing sound of suppressed laughter: _God? Which God?_

But it was really getting brighter ahead of them. Mina stumbled again, but Elentar never lost his stride. For a moment he simply picked her up and carried her, then let her slide down and into his rhythm again.

Were that golden leaves shimmering through the gloaming? And there, a silver trunk that reminded her of a beech tree? That gnarled old tree, was that an oak?

All of a sudden, the trees were parting again, the path broadening ahead of them, the air smelling sweet now, dusty and warm.

Now the trees were falling back behind them. The twilight of the trees turned once more into the sparkling interplay of sunshine and shadow, of bright green leaves fluttering in a soft breeze. Only a few yards ahead a sunlit meadow beckoned, dotted with flowers, just waiting for butterflies and deer to come visiting the peaceful vista.

Her heart was still pounding, weakness in the wake of panic softening her stride.

We're leaving the woods behind us, she thought. We're almost there.

_Almost…_

An icy gust grazed her neck, a cold caress. She did not want to look back. She was too afraid of what she might see. But for some reason she could not keep her eyes ahead on their path. She glanced backwards across her shoulder. Just a quick glance back to where they had come from.

Darkness seemed to flow behind the trunks of the trees, a darkness of many shapes and many eyes. Again she heard that voiceless laughter, and even as she stumbled against Elentar for the third time, the name was painfully clear in her mind.

"Run!" she screamed, and now it was Mina who dragged Elentar forwards, forgetting about the cats, forgetting about the path, panic propelling her forwards, only away, away from the woods, away from the night with many eyes.

They collapsed in the middle of the meadow. In the sunshine. In the bright, warm, golden sunshine.

"Oh God," Mina whispered. Her voice was hoarse, her eyes closed. The blood in her eyelids pulsed warm, red, alive. Soothing. _"Oh God."_

But somewhere in her mind a voice still whispered, syllables of gloom, syllables of darkness, sounds of death: Ungoliant.

For a long time they lay in silence in the sunshine, unheedful of their awkward, uncomfortable position, with the backpacks hard und unwieldy below them, side by side, with Elentar's arm still at her back.

"I didn't know that spiders can laugh," Mina said finally and opened her eyes again. Sunlight. A blue sky. White clouds. Wherever they were, it looked nice. Familiar. Peaceful. Perfect.

"Some spiders obviously can." Elentar slid his arm out behind her back. He winced, shaking the stiffness from the limb. "That was close."

He turned, looking into the direction where they had come from.

"The forest is gone!" he cried. "Or… it has drawn back." He squinted his eyes. "It looks as if it's still there, but at the horizon, like the distant shadows of night."

"Gone?" Mina remembered something else and clambered to her feet laboriously, staring around in alarm. "Not only the forest is gone! The cats are gone, too!"

With a fluid movement that belied the weight of his backpack, Elentar was at her side. "Indeed." He exhaled. "Well, nothing to be done about that. They are gone. But I don't think we have to worry about that now. It seems you were right. They did exactly what the story said. They found their way home."

"Then we _are_ in Middle-earth now? Are you sure?" She looked around again. Then she smiled. "Flowers… sunshine… quiet… it looks perfect."

Elentar smiled back at her, but she could see that his mind was elsewhere. All at once his smile faded, leaving a concerned frown in its wake. "Perfect… Quiet…"

He bent down, picked a flower. Staring at the flower in his hand, the frown turned into an expression of fear. "Mina, it's not perfect. Everything here, everything is dead!"

"What?" she gasped.

"The flowers. They are dead. They… everything… is dead!"

He pressed the flower into her hand and rushed over to a bush, its twigs heavy with pea green leaf buds and trailing yellow blossoms, then Elentar turned back to her, horror widening his eyes.

She turned the flower over in her fingers. It looked like a daisy. It looked perfect. The colours, the texture.

But close up it didn't look like any flower she had ever held in her hands before. Unless she counted the expensive shock-frosted and desiccated ornamental roses she had once admired in a florist's shop. They had looked lifelike, perfect, and yet, they had been dry and dead. Just like this blossom. Soft, sweet, dry and dead.

"As if it was frozen at the height of bloom, dehydrated, and dried," she whispered. "Are they all like that?"

"Yes," Elentar replied. "No flower, no blade of grass is alive in this meadow. And what's more: listen! Do you hear any insects? Any bees humming, any flies buzzing, any birds singing?"

The flower fell from her fingers and floated to the ground.

"The quiet," Mina said. "It's _too_ quiet."

"It's utterly silent." Elentar lowered his voice. "Your heartbeat is noisy like a drum."

"Do you know where we are? What can have caused this?"

"I have no idea."

And, in her mind: _Silent now. I hear something. Someone is hiding behind those bushes over there._

"I dare say we'll find out, sooner or later. But whatever is the cause, I need to take a quick break now." He raised his eyebrows slightly at her, and dropped his pack on the ground.

"A quick snack wouldn't be a bad idea either," she said. But she thought: _Be careful._

He was quick like lightning. One second he was standing beside her, the next he was fighting a form obscured by the bushes.

"An elf!" a female voice cried out in Sindarin. Elentar's opponent stopped struggling. "Who are you? You're not one of his..."

Mina did not understand the last word. Suddenly Elentar's voice was in her mind providing the translation: _minions_.

"Who are you? What happened here? Where are we?" He dragged the other person out of the bushes and onto the meadow. The newcomer was an Elvish woman. She was rail thin and dressed in rags. Her hair was a silvery stubble, shorn down to a skin that was streaked with blood. A deep gash graced the right side of her face. From the look of it the cheek bone was broken.

"She's human!" the Elf gasped in surprise, when she was standing before Mina. Elentar's mind-voice supplying the translation instantly.

"How is that possible?"

Elentar kept a hold on the Elf's upper arm, encircling it easily with one hand, so thin was she.

"I caught you; I get to ask the first question."

Silver eyebrows arched in amusement. But her eyes lingered on Mina. For a moment the eyes – silver tinged with blue – darkened, as if simply looking at Mina had given her essential information about the two travellers. A certain tension drained from the Elf's body.

"Very well."

"Where are we? And who are you?"

"Those are two questions."

Elentar must have tightened his grip on her, for she winced slightly.

"I said I would answer, _hên_. You are in Aman, the Damned Realm. And you have picked a very bad time for your visit. And for who I am?" She straightened, her eyes on fire. "I'm Celebrían, daughter of Galadriel and Celeborn, formerly wife of Elrond _Peredhel_. Now runaway slave and leader of our army, or whatever is left of it."


	22. Mortal and Immortal Courage

**Mortal and Immortal Courage**

"Celebrían!" Mina gasped, her reaction quicker than Elentar's, who stood frozen, his hand still wrapped around the thin arm of his grandmother.

"I just said so. Is something wrong with your ears?" was the woman's terse reply. Relayed instantly to her mind by Elentar, Mina felt she was understanding the woman's Sindarin as if it were English, another language, but one she was fluent in. While her Sindarin was probably better than her French, it was certainly not as good as that.

"And who are you?" the Elf went on. "I thought there was a treaty between us that no mortals would sail to Aman anymore? Apart from the fact that you couldn't have chosen a worse time to sail west. I thought your king was such an honourable man?"

Her gaze dropped to Mina's mid-section. There was no mistaking her derisive sneer. She turned to Elentar. "Did you come to implore the Valar to grant your bastards the choice of the _Peredhil_?" She snorted and shook her head. "Again, you couldn't have chosen a worse time for such a venture."

Celebrían swallowed hard, and Mina noticed that the Elf was shaking. "Elentar, I think she's about to collapse. Let her go! Lie down, my lady."

She had never addressed someone with 'my lady' before, but although Celebrían was thin, grimy and looked every bit like what she said she was, like a runaway slave, she was also, without doubt, a lady.

Celebrían shook her head. "Answer my questions first."

Elentar's gaze flickered to Mina. He did not even have to think his question at her. Mina shrugged. It was not her place to decide what he wanted to tell his grandmother.

"I am Elentar."

Delicate silver eyebrows rose a little. "I gathered as much."

Black eyebrows mimicked the expression. Grey eyes turned yet a shade colder.

"I am Elentar Elrohirion. And this is my wife Mina Elbenstern."

Silence.

Slowly, he let go of her arm, his eyes wary, his posture tense. He was ready to lunge for her, should she try to get away.

She blinked, stared, turned a little, her attention now completely on him. She was shivering so hard now that she could barely stand. Her lips moved slightly, but no sound emerged.

Celebrían stared at her grandson.

When she reached out, her hand was shaking. She had to reach up. She was tall, but Elentar was taller. Her fingertips touched his high forehead, trailed along his hairline, down to his ear, that pointy ear that still fascinated Mina so much. That ear, that was almost round, compared to the sharp points of Celebrían's ears, which somehow reminded Mina of ficus leaves.

"He married a mortal?"

Elentar's eyes sparked. Celebrían had better say nothing wrong now, Mina thought.

"Obviously."

"No… I… That isn't what I…" Celebrían's face fell. "Then he's dead, isn't he?"

The skin stretched tight across Elentar's high cheekbones. A nuance of expression Mina had come to recognize. _Elentar_, she thought.

A small sigh.

"Yes," Elentar said. "He is dead. And so is my mother."

Celebrían dropped her hand as if she had been burned.

"I – I –" For a moment she seemed to contemplate saying she was sorry, then the Elf decided against it. Pulling back, a haughty mask forming on her face once more, she regarded her grandson coolly.

"But you are not mortal" she said. "You are…"

"_Peredhel_," Elentar snapped. "Thanks to the Valar."

He reached for Mina, pulled her against him possessively. "And so will be our daughter."

Celebrían stared at them. "But if you already know, why did you sail here?"

"You need to get away from here," she added, casting a wild look around, panic audible in voice and movements again. "However did you make it so far inland?"

Mina frowned. "I thought the Straight Way was barred to mortals?"

Celebrían looked at her as if she was seeing Mina for the first time, or at least taking in her appearance for the first time. Jeans, trekking shoes, the backpack – for all their subdued colours still modern materials and very obviously not of Middle-earth origin.

"Where _do_ you come from?" Celebrían repeated.

Mina squeezed Elentar's hand briefly. _Tell her. We need to know what's going on._

Elentar cleared his throat. "From… across the Void. Another world. A world of mortals."

Mina suppressed a snort. _**Mostly** mortals, I'd say._

_Don't distract me._

But he squeezed her hand back.

Celebrían swayed slightly. "Across the Void?"

Elentar let go of Mina, quickly putting his arm around Celebrían. "You're exhausted, _daer-naneth_. Can we rest here? Is it safe here?"

The Elf gave a short snort of laughter. "It isn't safe anywhere, Elentar. But I suppose those bushes will have to do. Your wife is right: I _am_ exhausted."

They made camp in the shelter of the bushes. The dead flowers and grass whispered under their feet like tissue paper. Mina tried not to imagine what had caused this meadow to be that way, so perfect, so soft, so dead. Had Sauron come back?

Their dinner was sandwiches and chocolate bars, bananas and coke. Celebrían's eyebrows quirked again, at the outlandish wrappings, garish colours and strange tastes, but she didn't comment, simply stuffed herself with the hunger of someone who hadn't eaten enough in weeks.

Somehow, maybe because of the movies, Mina had assumed that Elentar got his expressive eyebrows from his grandfather. Now, with his grandmother kneeling next to her, she wasn't so sure about that anymore.

"I don't think they will come here tonight," Celebrían said suddenly. "I don't think He really cares at the moment. There are too few of us and not enough of them yet."

"Them?" Elentar asked.

"New orcs. I think He knows that we are no real danger to him. And his minions do not hate. I doubt they feel anything. Orcs, however, do hate. They will search for a runaway slave. The minions will only take me or destroy me when they happen to… scent me."

"What… _something…_ ever is going on here?" Mina asked. Speaking was more difficult than listening. She needed to think what she wanted to say before Elentar could subtly provide the correct version in her mind. "Is it Sauron? Is he back?"

Another thought occurred to her. "And which year is it?"

Celebrían leaned back tiredly. "I can see there is much that needs telling. But it will have to wait for the morning. I am too weary to even know where to begin."

She looked at Elentar. Now that she had eaten and was relaxing just a little, her exhaustion was beginning to cloud her proud gaze. "Maybe just one thing… When did you leave Middle-earth, _daer-iôn_?"

Elentar hesitated. "In the year 397 of the Fourth Age," he said at last.

"Ahhh," Celebrían sighed. "Today is the seventh day of the fifth month of the five-hundredth and twenty-seventh year what Men call the Fourth Age."

For a while everything was silent.

Too silent, Mina thought. No nightly noises, not even a breeze to stir the dead leaves. When a mere mortal feels she can hear the heartbeat of two Elves loud as drumbeats, it's definitely too quiet.

"But I was in the other world more than three hundred fifty years," Elentar said softly.

"Let us talk again tomorrow. I haven't truly rested for many weeks," his grandmother replied.

Elentar offered her his sleeping bag, but she wouldn't take it. She only accepted his camping pad and his cloak as a blanket. Celebrían lay down at once, hiding her head so it was impossible to tell if she closed her eyes for sleeping or not.

"I think it is better if I stay awake nevertheless," Elentar said.

"I don't think I'll be able to sleep," Mina replied.

"Cuddle up next to me in your sleeping bag and try to sleep anyway," he suggested, reaching for her, a quick loving caress.

"Okay."

Elentar sat down with his back towards a thorny bush, his eyes on the back of his grandmother and on the moonlit meadow. Mina obediently lay down next to him between the thicket and the sleeping form of the Elven woman. It was fairly comfortable. The sleeping bag was warm; the camping pad evened out the ground. The spicy scent of Elentar's body surrounded her.

"I wish I had a weapon," Elentar said quietly.

"You don't?"

"Just a dagger. I couldn't possibly bring a pistol. And you know I don't own a sword. And besides –" He brushed his hand over the soft tissue of dead flowers and grass next to him. "Against someone – something – that can do such as this… I doubt that a sword would be much use."

"Maybe we should have brought a basket with hand grenades?"

Elentar chuckled softly. "I'm glad you're not too scared."

"Scared? Me?" She had to be careful that her voice didn't rise, shrill with fear. "I'm frightened out of my wits. But that won't help now."

"I'm so sorry, Mina." All warmth bled from his voice. "That I brought you here, into danger, you and our daughter."

"You know exactly what I am going to say next, so I won't."

"Stubborn woman." He sounded shaky.

"Says _who_?"

He quickly bent down and kissed her. "The stubborn elf. And now try to sleep."

She wanted to repeat about how she was certain she wouldn't be able to sleep, but that seemed a little childish. And no matter in what kind of horror they had landed, of one thing she was already sure: she would need her strength.

She closed her eyes, snuggled a little closer to Elentar, and before she could think more about the details of some movie quotes concerning dirty big roots jabbing her back, she had fallen asleep.

**oooOooo**

A hand on her shoulder woke her. Her back and her legs ached, stiff and sore from the exertions of the previous days and the unaccustomed way of sleeping.

"Time to get up," Elentar said. "I don't think we can stay here, and we still need to talk about a couple of things."

Mina propped herself up on her elbows and nodded, wincing slightly as the muscles in her shoulders and neck protested. The previous day felt like a dream, her memory distorted by a mist of fear and exhaustion. But a glance at the crushed blades of grass next to her sleeping bag brought everything back: the golden, sunlit glade, the meadow with its many flowers, all dead. And no sound, no sound at all.

She exhaled softly, trying to listen. But there was only Elentar's breath and the barely discernible rustle of fabric. She looked up. Celebrían was stretching uncomfortably, her bony fingers stroking down her hips, down the faded fabric of Mina's spare pair of jeans. Fairly tight on Mina's already slender figure, they were baggy on Celebrían's rail thin body. The black t-shirt however, long on Mina, was too short for the Elf. The washed out flannel-shirt Elentar had donated fit better but was wide like a cloak.

Mina wriggled out of the sleeping bag. Before she could even consider asking Elentar if there was water nearby, he handed her their largest camping pot.  
"Don't drink it, it's tepid. But I think it should be okay for washing."

"Thanks." Carefully balancing the pot and her pack, Mina ducked behind a bush.

It was barely enough water to deserve the phrase "a lick and a promise" as a description, but Mina felt better for it.

Breakfast consisted of fresh fruit, cereal bars and cold tea. And for Mina, vitamin pills. She tried not to think about her baby, safe within her, but how safe could that be, when all of them were in danger here?

"We need to talk some more," Mina said.

"Indeed." Celebrían hitched the jeans higher.

Elentar simply narrowed his eyes at Celebrían. "What happened here? And why did you say 'formerly wife to Elrond _Peredhel_' when you introduced yourself yesterday?"

"I have some questions of my own yet," said the Elf. For a moment she cocked her head as if she was listening intently to things not audible, nor visible on this plane of existence. At last she relaxed a little and inclined her head.

"Very well. I shall start."

She raised her head, staring across the meadow. What she was looking at Mina couldn't discern. But she had the definite, uncomfortable feeling that Celebrían was seeing something. Mina was not perfectly sure where Elves were concerned, of course, but if humans started seeing things that were not really there, that was usually not a good sign.

"He came through the Ekkaia, the Door of Night. Some… three months ago, according to mortal reckoning. He came… a maelstrom of darkness, a wave of… Void. I think… a third of us died right then and there, there was a howling of disembodied _fëar_ in the wind all around me."

"And the Valar?" Elentar asked.

"Who? Who came?" Mina whispered. "Was it… is it… Sauron?"

Celebrían came back into the present with a visible start. For a short moment she did not seem to remember who her companions were. Then she laughed.

"Sauron? I wish! He was evil; I still have the scars to prove it. But when all is said and done," she whispered. "When all is accounted for, then he was only a minion, and a stupid minion at that. All that was needed to destroy Sauron was to destroy that ring. Now… not even the destruction of Eä may be enough."

Mina shuddered. Celebrían turned her fey, silvery gaze on her, and there was a mad light to her eyes. "Yes, mortal, be frightened, be very frightened, for the Black Foe of the World has returned and none are left who can fight Him."

The sun did not darken at her words, but the silence echoed around them, a silence, where there should have been a myriad small noises of birds and bees and butterflies, but there was none, none at all, save for Celebrían's rasping breath.

"Morgoth," Mina said in an almost inaudible voice. She had to say it. Her ears had to hear that name, or she would not believe it.

"Yes," Celebrían replied. "He is back. Back from the Void. And He is stronger than ever before."

"And the Valar?" Elentar repeated his question, his hand at the pendant he always wore around his neck, an old luck-charm, probably, a crusty old oyster shell.

"The Valar, the Valar, the Valar, our protectors, our guardians!" Crazy laughter echoed in Celebrían's voice. "They are gone, _daer-iôn_. Gone! It is said the Valar cannot be killed. But I have seen too many beings killed in my time that were impossible to kill. I do not know if they are dead. What I _do_ know is that the Valar are gone. Námo is gone. Houseless _fëar _have fled the empty caves where he guarded them against a better future of new bodily raiments and new lives. Now they will never see either."

She hunched over, shuddering, swaying back and forth, her eyes dark now, distant, on scenes she would never be able to unsee again.

"I've seen _fëar_ sucked into the Void. I've seen Elves die and their _fëar_ had nowhere to go. I have seen _hröar _broken into bloody pieces no bigger then my hands." She cupped her hands in front of her, so small, so slender that they would have held a grapefruit maybe, or two apples. "I've seen – felt – _fëar _being annihilated. No Halls of Waiting for them, no new raiment, no new hope. Tell me, would the Valar allow this, were they still here?"

She ducked as if under the lash of a whip, swivelling her head in panic as if she expected her pursuers to break through the bushes any moment. And the sun above was still warm and golden, the flowers on the meadow beautiful and bright, almost alive to behold. _Almost…_

"He dresses his minions in the _hröar_ of the dead. Most of the Elves that he did not kill he has captured. Those he can break, he turns into orcs. Those who are too strong are put to work in the mines at Formenos. Elven slaves, in our own country, in the Blessed –" she choked, flinched under the memory of more lashes.

"In Aman, the _Damned_ Realm."

_"Scheiße,"_ whispered Mina.

"Is there a way to get away from here? You expected us to have sailed here, didn't you?" Elentar was very pale, almost white. "If the Valar are gone, the Straight Way should be open."

Celebrían came out of her daze, shaking. She waved at Elentar in an irritable way. "The Straight Way _was _already open." Then she hesitated, and continued in a much softer tone. "You wouldn't know that, though, if you left already in 397." She sighed.

"Apparently… the magic used to make those evil rings, the power employed in the War of the Ring… It destabilized Middle-earth. A young seer, a Hobbit and the heir to the throne of Gondor came to seek our help to save Middle-earth. Even our powers wouldn't have been enough to save Middle-earth, but the _Emairth_, the Fates – powerful Ainur - and probably Eru Himself intervened. They were given _astelellion_, magical power strong enough to save Middle-earth, but power that could be wielded only by immortals. They were brought to Aman, and asked for the help of the Elves."

Celebrían fell silent, her thoughts obviously far away, the lines of her face harsh and bitter. Suddenly she went on. "I was against it. Hadn't Middle-earth taken enough from us already? My sons, my daughter? My life? _My husband!_" This word she spat out as if it was poison on her tongue.

"Then Elrond is dead?" Mina couldn't quite keep a hint of anguish out of her voice. If she had hoped to meet one Elf, then it would have been Elentar's grandfather.

"What is it with Elrond and Men?" Celebrían asked. Her eyes narrowed, glaring at Mina. Elentar put a protective arm around Mina.

"Is… my grandfather dead then?"

Celebrían snorted as if she wanted to say she wished he were dead. "Nay, as far as I know he's alive. I invoked the Doom of Manwë concerning the severance of marriage upon Elrond's return to Valinor. My _fëa_ and my _hröa_ had been separated. It was my right. I would not be his ever again, in name or body. Not after all he and his beloved Middle-earth had taken from me. He agreed to stay in the Halls of Mandos forever, so the Doom could be upheld. But Námo refused him."

She laughed again, a bitter laugh that wasn't quite sane. "Not even Námo wanted him!"

"What happened then?" Elentar drew Mina closer, his voice carefully devoid of expression.

Celebrían shrugged. "What could Lord Manwë have done under the circumstances? Forced us to keep vows we never made? He declared our marriage severed. I was free at last. And Elrond… mewling piss-pot that he always was, removed to that shiny white villa near Alqualondë."

"Is that all? If you say he is not dead, is he a slave now, too?"

Celebrían glared at Elentar. "You should know better than to interrupt your elders, _hên_. That is not all. Elrond was searching for a way to free his _fëa_ from his _hröa_ when that little band of heroes arrived here. That little _lŷg_ of a girl went to him, and he fell for her. A mortal girl! Calling an Elf from his chosen path. And of course he had to go and play the hero again. He convinced the Council to help Middle-earth again. And it gets better. They actually managed to save Middle-earth."

She broke off, overcome with wheezing bouts of laughter. "They saved Middle-earth for this. For this! So He could come back! Soon He will be strong enough to cross the Straight Way, and then woe upon the world."

Elentar ignored his grandmother's hysterics. "Does that mean for all you know he is alive? Elrond is alive? And there are others, other elves, with him? There is a way from here to Middle-earth? And He – " Instinctively Elentar lowered his voice, "He is not yet strong enough to attempt it?"

"You're a smart one." Celebrían's voice was like ice, then suddenly softened. "Like your father, like your uncle. Like your aunt. All of them, they were such smart children."

She shuddered again, then shook herself. When she looked at Elentar and Mina again, she was calm. "Yes," she said. "I do not think He is strong enough to take the Straight Way and subdue Middle-earth. Not yet. But He will be. Soon."

"Then we need to go the Straight Way before He does. We need to warn Middle-earth. If we get there in time, we might form an army – we might have a chance –"

"A chance? Against the Black Foe of the World?" Celebrían closed her eyes, her lips quivering in painful mirth.

"Alternatively we can simply lie down and die right now, right here." Mina was getting angry. "If that's what elves do when faced with danger and destruction, then have fun. I am only a human, mere Man, and I'll be damned if I don't try and stop Him, Black Foe of the World, Black Enemy, Bauglir or whatever. My –" She hesitated. "The world where I come from, has seen two world wars and we – they – are still going strong. _Melkor._"

Elentar shrank away at that name, Celebrían shivered. But Mina would not – did not want to – be scared of a name. She _was_ scared of that name, of course she was, but she wouldn't allow it. She _couldn't_ allow it.

"Melkor," she repeated firmly. "He was defeated twice, wasn't he? Chained in dungeons here in Valinor, and then cast out into the Void? That means, he can be defeated. And if he could be defeated then, he can be defeated now."

Except of course, if he can't be, a small voice whispered at the back of her mind. But she put her hand on her stomach, where, somewhere beneath flesh and muscles, her daughter rested. A daughter, a _peredhel_, who would be born here, in this world.

Celebrían looked at her with something like surprise in her eyes. "What passion your kind has! What foolish passion. You sound like that little _lŷg_ who is now with my former husband. So sure that the world can be saved, that the world should be saved."

"If you are so sure that the only solution is giving up, pardon my question: why aren't you dead yet? Or an orc? Or still a slave? That," Mina said, pointing at Celebrían's cheek. "Must have hurt."

"It still hurts," Celebrían replied, her voice tinged with a tone that sounded almost like satisfaction. The Elf inhaled deeply, the too small t-shirt revealing an almost hollow stomach and prominent ribs. A fey fire gleamed in her eyes, yet she appeared more normal to Mina, or at least not quite as mad as moments before. "I will not die. I had the choice once, put before me by the creatures of the servant. And I returned to life. At the very least I shall not make that choice _for _the master."

Celebrían smiled suddenly, as if she had made a decision – the decision to trust them, Mina wondered? Having escaped servants of Morgoth that wore the bodies of the dead, she would have had to be suspicious of a grandson and his wife seemingly appearing out of nowhere.

Hunching down, the Elf whispered, "The last warriors of the armies of the Eldar in Aman are hiding in the caves that were once the Halls of Mandos. I was on my way there. But now I think that is too dangerous. If you truly want to reach Middle-earth, we need to make for Alqualondë at once." She broke off, tilting her head, listening. A look of alarm swept over her face.

"Someone's coming," she gasped. "Hide! And if they have dark eyes, darker than the night, then run, run like the wind, for if they are killed, everything that is alive within a circle of five hundred yards is destroyed!"

**oooOooo**

**Translations of the Sindarin expressions used in this chapter:**

astellelion – power of the stars

daer-iôn – grandson

daer-naneth – grandmother

emairth (plural of amarth) – the fates

fëa, fëar – soul, souls

hên – child

hröa, hröar – body, bodies

lŷg – snake

morgoth – black foe of the world


	23. An Evil Ghost?

**An Evil Ghost?**

He was upon them before even the elves could get to their feet, before Mina could so much as draw the next breath. He was upon them in flames of red and white and black, and from somewhere far away Mina heard her voice mumbling a monotonous litany of _"Oh Gott, oh Gott, oh Gott, oh Gott"_.

Then the flames parted, her vision cleared as if she was coming out of a faint. He was standing before them: a tall elf in black robes, with long black hair flowing around pointy ears and down to his hips. Mina remembered to watch his eyes. _If they have dark eyes, then run, run like the wind…_ But his eyes were not black. Nor were they like the eyes of any ordinary Man or Elf. His eyes were filled with flickering flames. It should have been impossible to create the expression of focused attention with eyes like that, but he was staring at Celebrían now, intently, taking in every detail of her appearance, as if he wanted to sear her to ashes.

Mina blinked. Blinked again. Then her heart resumed a frantic race. Hair and cloak floated in a wind that was not there, and the edge of the fabric as well as the fine tendrils of hair dissolved into nothing. Whatever he – it – was, it was no Elf, and it did not look like a living being, but more like a spectre.

A ghost.

"Oh Gott," Mina whispered again. _"Oh Gott, was ist das?"_

"You're not her," he said. "You're one of the Eldar, but you are not the one I am looking for."

Celebrían was suddenly on her feet, moving too quickly for mortal eyes. Her stance was tense; she was poised to flee if she got the chance. Her eyes were cool; there was no fear in them at all.

"Whom are you seeking, _faereviol_?"

His fire seemed to flicker, to diminish. "My wife," he said. "My love. The mother of my children, the light of my life.

"But I cannot find her." His voice sank to a whisper.

The flames in his eyes died, turning them into an almost translucent light grey. Mina thought she could see the dead bushes and their deceitful blossoms through his eyes.

"Is she gone?" His voice was barely more than a sigh.

Suddenly Mina was shoved to the back. Elentar jumped in front of her, obviously trying to shield her from the ghost. At the same time Celebrían subtly shifted her stance, so she, in turn, stood between the appearance and Elentar. _Protecting the protector_, Mina thought. _For all the good it will do._

Celebrían looked intently at the wavering form before them. "I think I know who you are," she rasped. Tension choked her voice.

The form solidified once more. The Elf – or ghost – seemed to throw back his head in anguished laughter, but there was no sound.

Celebrían's reaction was strange. The Elf-woman appeared to relax ever so slightly.

"Who you were," she amended. Her voice sounded much softer, almost like a sigh now, too.

Mina had to suppress a sigh. _'Who you were' – just like Celebrían herself. But who was he?_

She narrowed her eyes at the strange figure, _fëa_ without a _hröa_.

The ghost ignored Celebrían. Instead he swept over to Elentar. Mina could not help herself; she took a step back, flinching from the approach of ... of what? A phantom of fire?

She swallowed hard, but it did not help. Her heart was beating so hard that she could feel it in the veins at her throat, literally in her mouth, a hard, vibrating lump of fear that she could not swallow down, no matter how hard she tried. Was he with the enemy?

Elentar froze and did not give an inch.

Mina could not see it from behind, but she guessed that the skin stretched tight over his cheekbones and that his eyes turned cold like ice. Celebrían turned with the movement of the ghost, but she did not step aside. For a moment the Elf-woman hesitated, as if she calculated the time and distance necessary to throw herself between Elentar and the ghost should the need arise. Then she favoured Elentar with that little half-crazed smile of hers and took exactly two steps back.

"And who are you?" hissed the ghost. Black and fiery he loomed over Elentar.

"Where I come from it is considered to be good manners if the newcomer introduces himself."

Mina knew that the slight tinge of tension in Elentar's voice was for her, and her unborn daughter, not for himself. And she could almost hear that quirked eyebrow.

She shot a glance at Celebrían. Elentar's grandmother gazed at her grandson in barely veiled fascination.

The ghost drew back. Met with such stubborn courage he seemed to diminish again. He drew his robes tighter around his body, then drifted even closer to Elentar. The gesture looked wrong. Like an act, like a gesture of an actor up on a stage. As if he had not worn a real cloak for a very long time.

What would constitute a really long time for an Elf?

"And where do you come from?" asked the ghost – almost politely.

Mina could feel how Elentar opened his mouth and shut it again. Indeed, just where they had come from was very dangerous information to give right now. Especially if you did not know who was asking for it. But there was something niggling at the back of her mind now. Something unbelievable, something even more incredible...

"You have not yet told me your name," Elentar repeated. "But I will be gracious and tell you mine, hoping that this courtesy may improve your manners. I am Elentar Elrohirion. And you are ...?"

Mina gasped. "I know who he is," she stammered. Who he must be, she thought. An Elf who had been dead for such a long time that the movements of his visible _fëa_ felt wrong like an act. An Elf who was so imperious that the idea of someone not obeying him instantly never entered his mind.

_"He was tall, and fair of face, and masterful, his eyes piercingly bright and his hair raven-dark..."_

Indeed a phantom of fire. She inhaled deeply. Still her voice sounded thin and shivery when she spoke, her halting Quenya unsupported by Elentar's mind-speak.

"Erye na Fëanor."

_He is Fëanor._

Fëanor drew back from Elentar and seemed to notice Mina for the first time. He did not approach her, only focused his attention on her. Flames seemed to dance in his eyes, a grey fire of light and darkness.

"And who, may I inquire, are you, gentle lady?"

Mina almost laughed. So he could be polite if he wanted to! She groped for an appropriate reply in Quenya.

"Or should I say _what_?" Lightning seemed to flare in the eyes of the ghost. Mina gasped and took another step back.

Elentar had enough. He stepped next to Mina and put an arm around her. Though it was obvious that he wanted to protect her, the gesture spoke more of pride than of fear for her.

"She, my lord, is a child of Men, one of the younger children of Eru Ilúvatar. And my wife."

The ghost hesitated. Celebrían gave an odd sound, almost like choked laughter. Fëanor appeared to grow smaller, but more solid. Now nothing of the dead meadow behind him shimmered through his form. As if curiosity and concentration strengthened his _fëa_.

"We were told about you," he whispered as he stared at her. His eyes looked almost normal now but indeed very piercing and bright. "_They_ were waiting for you."

He shuddered, and once more lost some of his substance. The meadow lurked behind his eyes again, and Mina could not make out the hem of his robes clearly anymore. _As if his form echoed a sigh, _she mused.

"I never encountered one of your people."

Suddenly a thought seemed to occur to him and he focused his gaze on Elentar.

"And you ...," he said in a bemused way. "You are different, too. Though not as different as she is."

Fëanor drifted back a little, as if he wanted to take in their appearance from another perspective. Mina shivered. She was almost certain that Elentar and Celebrían did not appear to Fëanor the way they did when she looked at them with her human eyes.

The ghost of Fëanor affected to sniff.

"You're like her, and yet you are an Elf. Or almost an Elf." He turned to Celebrían. "So we mix our blood with theirs? And our fate?"

Celebrían gave a bitter laugh. "Apparently we do, we do. My former husband was one of them, too. Mixed blood and tainted fate. What we would have been spared, had the blood of the Firstborn and the blood of the Secondborn never mingled!"

Mina frowned. But even as she felt the cutting rebuke form in Elentar's mind, she laid her hand on his arm. _It doesn't matter,_ she thought to him. _And right now we really have more important things to discuss._

Fëanor whipped around as if he had heard her. She flinched. Alive Fëanor's spirit had been more powerful than that of any other Elf. Apparently this had not changed much just because he was dead.

Dead. He had been in the Halls of Mandos. If the other _fëar_ who had been held there had evaporated upon Morgoth's return, why was Fëanor here? Here, and well – or at least visible and coherent?

Elentar had noticed Fëanor's reaction, too. Without giving any indication of being bothered or afraid, Elentar said calmly, his Quenya slow and clearly enunciated, "My wife is right. We do have more important matters to discuss right now than woes of the past. Why are you here? Why were you not atomized along with the other souls kept in the Halls? Have you become a servant of Morgoth? Was that the price for your ... continued existence?"

Mina gulped. _Yes, life was definitely the wrong word._

Fëanor glowered at her and seemed to become more insubstantial than ever. Celebrían moved closer to them, her eyes glowing.

"Yes," she agreed. "Those are very good questions. And I would like them answered.

"If you please, my lord," she added as an afterthought and sneered at him. Mina tried to school her face to impassivity, suppressing the urge to frown. Was that a good strategy to draw him out? It was very obvious that neither of them could make the ghost of Fëanor talk if he didn't want to, or keep him here, or prevent him from betraying them to the Enemy, should he indeed have become a servant of Morgoth.

"At least _your_ accent is not painful to my ears," Fëanor retorted, covering his ears in another exaggerated, artificial gesture. Now Mina did roll her eyes, even as a suspicion formed in her mind. A thought she tried to keep as quiet and unobtrusive as possible.

_He wanted something from them, or rather from Celebrían. The whereabouts of his wife. And: he was hungry for company._

In vain she tried to suppress her next thought_: millennia in the Halls of Mandos must be very dark and very lonely._

She staggered and clutched at Elentar for support when an alien, silky and strangely powerful mind-voice invaded her thoughts: _Very dark. And very lonely._

Fëanor wavered in the air as if he was unsure what to say. Then his form solidified once more as if he had made an important decision.

"He thinks that he controls me," Fëanor muttered. Celebrían and Elentar gasped as one. Mina felt her cheeks grow cold and her temples pulse with shock. _So he was in league with Morgoth._

"Nay!" the ghost bellowed, then glanced about hurriedly, sinking lower to the ground as if he was ducking away from an invisible eye, fearing discovery. "Nay," he repeated. Then he looked up, his face almost translucent, as he added with painful honesty,. "I _think_ that he only _thinks_ that he controls me."

"But you're not sure."

Fëanor threw up his hands. Another of those overdone gestures. As if he had been completely invisible during the millennia he had spent in the Halls. Had he practiced each gesture in his mind, as the centuries passed by without a trace?

"_Look_ at me!" he said. "How can I be sure? I am not sure of my own form! I do not know what this 'atomized' means that you speak of, but if you refer to instantly dissolving into the Void, then yes, that should have happened to me."

He fell silent. For a long moment he hovered hesitatingly, a brooding look on his face. Had he been in possession of a bodily form, he would have paced.

"He came looking for me.

"I ... do not know how he did it. How he prevented me from ... annihilation. But I do know why he did it."

The faked inhalation enlarged his form, but frayed the edges of his appearance. Suddenly a sly expression flittered over his phantom face. "You want to know about him. But I ... there are things I want to know, too."

"A deal then?" Elentar's Quenya was good. As good as Mina's excellent Latin. Fëanor winced. But he nodded. A most solemn impersonation of a nod.

"Grandmother?"

Celebrían scowled. She did not like how Elentar cut to the chase, how he took over the leadership in this matter. But she, too, nodded her assent.

"What do you want to know, Curufinwë?"

Being addressed like that made the ghost wince, withdraw into himself, while at the same time becoming more solid again. When he replied, his gaze was focused on Celebrían. "I told you already," he said. "I am searching for my wife, I am searching for Nerdanel. I must know if she is lost, if she is gone –"

"And if she is?" Celebrían's voice was harsh. "What then? Will you accept Him as your master willingly then? Out of grief? Many are gone, Curufinwë. Dissolved into nothing. Vaporized. _Atomized_." She shot Elentar a hostile glance. "My mother is gone," she whispered. "And my father is gone," she rasped. "Olórin is no more."

Mina clutched at Elentar's arm. For a short moment their minds touched even as their bodies did, sharing an instant of grief over meetings they had secretly hoped for, longed for, and that would never take place now.

"Alatáriel? Gone?" Shock and grief rendered Fëanor almost translucent.

Celebrían looked at the ghost with an expression of bitterness and curiosity in the same measure. "I thought there was no love lost between you."

"Love? Lost? _Yé_, there was love between us, and it was lost. Lost to my pride and my arrogance, as there were so many other things." He hovered in silence for a moment. "How –"

"How did it happen?" Celebrían rushed out the words. Hearing Fëanor mention love and loss had made her pale even more. The bloody gash over the broken cheekbone stood out in stark contrast to the white skin. "I was not there, I was not there, would I be here if I had been there? But I heard whispers in the mines, of how they faced him even though they knew it would be the end for them, an end that would last beyond the end of Eä. They must have been gone within the blink of an eye."

"But Nerdanel, do you know aught of Nerdanel? Do you know if my wife ..." He could not continue.

For a moment Celebrían seemed to hover on the brink of crazy laughter. But then she sobered, as if the broken tone of his voice reminded her of something, or someone, or some place else.

"Nay, my lord, I am truly sorry. I do not know what became of her. She dwelt on Tol Eressëa ever since you left these shores. She built a house on the eastern cliffs of the isle, so she might look towards the East." Celebrían broke off, as another bitter thought disrupted her softer mood.

"She might still be alive then," Fëanor murmured. "She might still live. Would I know if she were gone? In this strange form of my self? And if there were no Halls for her _fëa_ to fly to? Would I know?"

Mina shivered. She had always imagined death to be final and lead to nowhere, entertaining nothing beyond the vaguest of hopeful agnostic notions. But here, now ... it had not been necessary to hope for an Elf before, for they had known. They had known that their soul was tied to this world until the end of time. Death only took them to the Halls of Waiting, and to a newer life. But not anymore. Not anymore.

She felt Elentar stir next to her, as if he had to force his mind back to practical matters. "So you do not serve him? Does he know that you are here? Will you tell him that you met us?"

Celebrían glanced at her grandson. Astonishment and appreciation mingled in her gaze.

Elentar shook his head impatiently when he noticed how she looked at him. "Don't tell me I remind you of my father. This is not the right time or place for that."

Mina pressed his arm. His irritation masked apprehension. The expression on his face was strained, his posture tense. Mina's reaction seemed to amuse Celebrían. The Elf-woman flashed a quick, lop-sided smile that ended in a painful grimace as the movement hurt her broken cheekbone. "No," Celebrían said softly. "It was not your father you remind me of. – But you are right: this is not the time or place to dawdle. My lord, those questions _are_ warranted."

If he were a true servant of Morgoth, Mina mused, would we still be standing here?

Another alien tendril of thought stroked her brain as if Fëanor was chuckling at her: _Maybe._

She glared at him, then searching for the correct words, she retorted, "I do not think so. If he were, reducing us to dust instantly would have been much more practical."

Fëanor bowed to her. "Indeed." Then, turning to Celebrían, "A child of Men she may be, but she _can_ think."

Elentar inhaled. His words were almost too quiet and slow when he spoke again. "Will you tell him that you met us? Will you hinder our progress?"

The outlines of Fëanor's form sharpened. "Your progress? Where to? And to what purpose?"

Mina made a quick decision. If he was a true servant of Morgoth, they had little chance of escape whatever they did. But if he was not, maybe here was the chance to win a powerful ally. "We're on our way to Alqualondë. We mean to return to Middle-earth, in order to warn the Elves there of Morgoth's return and to raise an army."

Celebrían started laughing, a low, crazed laughter. But she did not speak.

Fëanor frowned. It must have been one of his most-often used facial expressions, as it did not appear as artificial as most of his other gestures and looks. "There are still Elves in that damned and forsaken place?"

Elentar nodded. "My grandmother informs me that my grandfather and many other Elves have returned to Middle-earth, supported by Eru, the Valar and the Ainur."

Now it was Fëanor's turn to collapse in silent laughter. The Ainur and the Valar were gone. But although a part of Fëanor in his pride probably rejoiced in that fact, the way he writhed in silent laughter spoke of pain more than of glee.

"What kind of army do you think you can raise? They are few," Celebrían snapped. "And they are far from the strength of even the Third Age."

"You are not giving up the fight either," commented Mina dryly. "And besides, what else is there to do?"

"By which means could they hope to return?" Fëanor asked.

Celebrían raised her eyebrows at Mina. Obviously the Elf-woman had understood Mina's train of thought, but was not quite convinced of it. Suddenly she shrugged. "The Straight Way was opened when three mortals came to ask for our help a few years ago. When my former husband, the re-born Gil-galad and many others of our people returned with them to Middle-earth. And unless someone has been burning ships again, there should be a sailing-boat that can carry them back to Middle-earth at Alqualondë."

Fëanor exhaled softly – or at least it seemed to Mina that the movement was supposed to portray a soft exhalation – and shook himself. "You will never reach Alqualondë. He has sent out his minions to find all Elves and bring them to him. He does not like opposition."

"On their own, certainly not. With my help, maybe." Celebrían threw a calculating glance at Fëanor's pensive form. "With your help I dare say they would have a chance."

"Why should I help you?"

"Because –"

Celebrían never got to finish the sentence.

"They are here already," hissed Fëanor suddenly. "They are approaching quickly. From the north. Run! I will detain them."

Celebrían did not hesitate for a second. She grabbed Mina's arm while Elentar snatched up their packs, and off they were, running southwards as fast as they could, through pretty blooming meadows and into a lovely green forest, and under their feet dead and withered grass crumpled like old paper.


	24. Another Deal

**Another Deal**

Mina's heart was pounding as she ran through the forest, as much from exertion as from fear. Every breath seared her lungs. Soon she felt stitches in her sides, painful jabs. Her mind was strangely empty, the world narrowing down on following Celebrían through the woods without falling down or hitting a tree.

The Elf slowed down much sooner than Mina had expected.

"Should we slow down already?"

Celebrían raised her eyebrows in exasperation. "We can't keep running like that. It's not good for you and for the life you carry within you.

"And besides," she added in a very soft voice. "Running from them won't help. Elves can run long and hard without sleep or nourishment if need be. But _they_ are not alive. They need _no_ sleep and _no_ food. Their speed is not from this world. Not even the swiftest of my kindred can outrun them."

Mina nodded and slowed down some more. She was gasping for air and holding her sides, panic had impaired her breathing, so she had never found a comfortable rhythm. She winced at the pain in her sides. Elentar was at Mina's side again and she could feel, if not see, the worry and apprehension in his gaze. For her and the baby, she realized. And not because they were in a strange world that was being overtaken by the forces of Evil. Evil with a very big "E". But just because he loved her and his daughter. He would have worried even if they were still taking a comfortable stroll in the Cotswolds. She felt her heart lift at her husband's courage and almost smiled.

"Mina, what is it?"

She shook her head, then forced herself to reply. "It's nothing. Just stitches in my side."

Celebrían frowned. "Let me."

Mina did not like to be touched by the Elf-woman, but she forced herself to submit to the touch. Celebrían's hands were light and brittle, like bird-feet. As she stroked down Mina's sides, heat radiated from her palms, and the pain subsided.  
I thought Elrond had been the healer in the family, Mina wondered. But she was wise enough not even to think that thought very loud.

"Will he be able to turn them away?"

Celebrían straightened and shrugged. "I have no idea. He should not exist. Yet he is here. Who am I to guess what he can or can not do?"

"Do you think that Morgoth is able to control him?"

Her eyes darkened. "At the moment I think that this ... spectre said the truth as best he might: Fëanor _thinks_ that Morgoth _thinks_ that he does control Fëanor."

Mina felt the corners of her mouth curl up. Somewhere beneath the bitterness lurked a very dry humour. Something she had not expected to find in an Elf.

Elentar warily looked around. The wood was beautiful, sunny, and absolutely silent. _Dead._ Just as dead as everything else they had seen of Aman so far. Then he sighed and shook his head, turning back to Celebrían and Mina. "Judging from the stories my father told me when I was a child, I think with Fëanor Morgoth has bitten off more than he can chew."

Celebrían only rolled her eyes. Obviously she was not as impressed with the ghost of the most notorious of all the Noldor. Mina pressed her hand on her heart. Even the Valar had not been able to withstand the returned Morgoth. How could the houseless _fëa_ of an ancient Elf hope to prevail against the Black Foe of the World?

"What do we do now?" asked Mina.

"I will take you to Alqualondë. I will find a ship and put you on board. I will –" Celebrían broke off, her face freezing. Mina looked quickly away. Had Celebrían been about to say 'kiss you goodbye'? Or 'wish you well'? But in a situation when your enemies could reduce you to atoms and molecules with a touch that was probably not quite appropriate.

Mina pressed her lips, trying not to succumb to the cold feeling of panic that was cramping her stomach tightly. "Which way?"

Celebrían bent down and picked up Mina's pack. "I think it's better if I carry that from now on." Then she gave her a tiny smile. "Follow me."

Mina picked up the guitar and glared at Elentar, when he moved to take it from her hands. She ignored his reproachfully raised eyebrows and followed the Elf-woman. Elentar wordlessly brought up the rear again. They were walking at a fast pace, but not running now. After a while Mina had found her rhythm, and with only the guitar to carry, she felt almost comfortable. Her breath came free and easy now, and her sides did not pain her anymore.

"Do you think we'll see him again?" she asked.

"That evil ghost?"

She could hear Elentar's frown.

"Why do you want to see him again?" he asked.

Mina stopped. "I – I don't – my impression was not that he – that he is – evil. I – I do know his story, of course, but – he –"

"You are talking about me," came a sudden hiss, and a pale wavering shadow was suddenly at Mina's side.

She jumped, and her heart jumped with her. Gasping, she pressed her hand to her chest once more. "Do you have to appear out of nowhere like that?"

Without noticing it, she had spoken in German. Fëanor tilted his head and looked at her full of curiosity. Elentar repeated her words in Quenya. The ghost affected a snort.

Mina shook her head. "He understood what I said, Elentar." She turned to Fëanor again. "I thought you could only speak Quenya?"

Another thought occurred to her. "Do you understand Sindarin as well, after all?" Had the ghost been listening to everything that had been said so far?

"Well," Fëanor said with an airy gesture. "It appears I do after all." He paused. "At least – I was learning how to speak it before I – And as for 'Do you have to appear out of nowhere like that?'" – He mimicked the German sounds perfectly. Then gestured at his ghostly, flickering form. "I most certainly do. As you should be able to see at one glance."

"Did you –"

"Kill them? Not necessary, they were already dead. Send them off? Yes. Or do you see any black eyed husks that once were Elves closing in on you?"

Celebrían was not in the mood for small talk. "Why have you come back?" she cut in, her voice icy once more.

"Because I wanted to? Or because Morgoth sent me? That is what you are thinking, isn't it?" mocked Fëanor.

For a fleeting moment Mina had the impression that the ghost – the barely substantial _fëa_ – or whatever he was, simply enjoyed hearing his voice again. Hearing other voices again. But he had left out an alternative that seemed most obvious to her.

"Or because you want something from us?" Mina put in.

Out of the corner of her eye she caught Elentar's expression, the merest hint of an appreciatively raised eyebrow.

Fëanor whirled around to face her. Fire flickered in the blackness of his robes, or underneath the mirage of robes he kept conjuring up in order to keep up the appearance of a body, a semblance of life. He stared into her eyes. His gaze was penetrating in a painful way. Between fire and darkness she caught glimpses of the sky, and sometimes of something more solid, but infinitely hazier, almost like the image of a memory barely recalled: very bright grey eyes.

He did not breathe, so he could not sigh, but he grew smaller in what amounted to a reasonable equivalent of a sigh. A slight deflation of his strange, surreal form.

"Yes," he whispered at last. "How perceptive. Because I want something from you." But then he turned to Celebrían as if Mina and Elentar were nothing but air, or less than air, considering how he himself was barely more than air. Albeit very fiery and temperamental air, Mina mused.

"You were talking about Alqualondë earlier, and about a ship."

"I assume you cannot give me any assurance that what was said and what will be said will never reach the Enemy?" Celebrían's voice was cool and practical.

A hint of grey flickered where his eyes would have been. "There are no promises left to me in death. And as I am sure you are aware of, the promises I gave in life were fraught with pain and suffering for all who heard them. Millennia spent without sight, sound or substance should have taught me at least some lessons, do you not agree?"

Celebrían's eyes narrowed and a shadow passed over her face. "Maybe. Maybe not. So you want ... something from us, but you cannot give us anything in return?"

"Nay," he exclaimed. "Woman, are you trying to drive me to distraction? I did not say that there is naught that I can give you in return. I said that it is _vows_, _curses_ or _promises_ that I am loathe to offer you. But if you were ... to undertake a small ... venture for me, I would at least _try_ to do something of equal value for you."

Elentar had had enough. His voice terse, he interrupted: "Cut that beating around the bush. What do you want? And what can you do for us?"

"I would ask you to go to Tol Eressëa, to look for Nerdanel, and if you were to find her, to take her with you, across the sea, to the distant shores of Arda, to – there is no safety anymore, but I should still wish her away from here, as far as possible, where mayhap a way might still be found to change the darkest of fates for all of Eä."

For a short while the silence was complete. Then Elentar spoke again, "You wish for us to find your wife and take her with us, away from Aman."

Fëanor nodded. "That is my wish. I – or what is left of me – is bound to this place, to –" His form wavered, his face a grimace of pain and disgust. "To _him_."

The ghost stilled, contours clearer. "Though not quite in the way he thinks," he hissed. "Just almost ..."

Celebrían's calm voice cut in, "And what can you offer my grandson and his family in return?"

"I feel his cold servants before you do, and it is within my power to sway their advance. Not to destroy them, I said that before, but at the very least to distract them. I could provide you with the time you need to escape. The precious moments of a successful flight."

Fëanor fell silent again, waiting for them to reply.

Mina caught Elentar's eyes. _I don't trust him_, she thought at her husband. _But ..._ He gave her an imperceptible nod as he finished her thought, _it may be the best chance we get._

"We have a deal then," Elentar said and held out his hand. "I promise to sail to Tol Eressëa and to search for Nerdanel. If she is alive and willing, she shall sail with us to Middle-earth. If not to safety, at least to a peaceful death. In return, you will do everything within your power to protect us while we are in Aman."

"Agreed," whispered the ghost, and reached for Elentar's hand. "So mote it be." Elentar did not move or cringe, but Mina could see how the tiny hairs on his arms stood up and a shiver ran over his body.

**oooOooo**

That evening Mina was simply too tired to be scared. She fell asleep in Elentar's arms while Celebrían watched them dispassionately, her eyes alert and dark, her thin body tense like that of a wild cat. Fëanor had disappeared at nightfall. She supposed she ought to feel disturbed at yet another unexplained disappearance, but for some reason she did not doubt the sincerity of his vow. And it did make sense. Everything she had read about this most famous of all Noldor indicated that he had – in spite of everything – truly loved his wife.

In the morning, the sullen Elvish ghost was back and ready to lead them towards Alqualondë on secret paths that circumvented the patrols of the Dark Lord's minions.

They walked all day and rested only for short periods. Mina felt increasingly uncomfortable. The others were watching her.

She knew, of course, why Elentar was following her every movement. He was sick with worry about her and their child. But the baby rested safely within her womb. She was aware of her daughter's presence, quietly growing within her.

Mina suspected that Celebrían's reasons for keeping her eyes on her were similar, if not the same. After all the Elf had been through, it had to affect her to be so suddenly confronted not only with family, but with the proof that life did go on, in spite of everything.

She was not sure she wanted to know why Fëanor seemed to watch her every breath, why he appeared to drink in every inch of her body. The ghost was also observing the others, but not quite as ... obsessively. Maybe because it had been so long since he had seen living beings? Maybe because he had never had a chance to look at a human female for a longer period of time? Maybe just because he _could_? Whatever the reason, the constant awareness of being watched made her feel uncomfortable and on edge.

She was almost glad when exhaustion dragged her down into a dreamless, heavy slumber that night. And the following night. And the night after that.

Celebrían was also watching Fëanor – when he was visible. It was obvious that she did not trust him. An attitude that was altogether understandable, considering Elvish history. But for some reason, Mina had no doubts about Fëanor's honesty concerning the conditions of his vow. On the other hand, she was not at all certain if it was truly within his power to fulfil it. She shivered. Even thinking of dead Elves filled with the destructive power of the Void made her steps falter, and her stomach clench with fear for their lives. But the long, slow days of walking went by without another close encounter with the enemy.

At last they reached the shadows of the Pelóri.

"There is only one way across the Pelóri," Celebrían said.

Mina swallowed hard. She had been wondering about that. "The pass of Tirion, below the Taniquetil," she murmured.

"The pass will be heavily guarded for sure," Elentar surmised.

Fëanor only nodded, a curious gesture for a ghost, much like wind blowing back a translucent banner. "Of course," he hissed. "But I will lead you there coming up from the dark side of Avathar. If we keep way above the pass, we should be able to sneak around the balrogs and the walking dead who have taken up residence in Tirion. They will not expect anyone to come that way, because who should?"

The vicious glare that Celebrían aimed at Fëanor made Mina wonder if that had been one of the plans of the small group of Elvish rebels that were hiding in the empty Halls of Mandos now, trying to resist the Black Foe of the World before all Elves had perished. Mina shuddered. She must not allow her thoughts to stray to such possibilities; no matter how likely it was that such dread would come to pass. It was enough to think of the next step, the next day, the few minutes at night when she rested next to her husband, his palm warm on her gently rounded stomach.

That night, in the depth of a valley cutting deep into the flanks of the Pelóri, they risked a fire. A very small fire, but its warmth and light did much to lift Mina's spirits. Even Celebrían did not look quite as haggard and drawn.

For once Fëanor had stayed with them, visible as a silvery shadow beyond the reach of the wavering light of the flames.

After a while of sitting quietly in the warmth, Celebrían suddenly turned to Elentar. "If you could find it in your heart –" she hesitated, "– I should like to hear more about your life, and that other world, beyond the Void, where you –" another pause, "– met your wife."

Elentar's frown said clearer than words that he did not feel like reminiscing about his life on earth. But Mina laid a soothing hand on his arm. "Maybe a song," she suggested. Turning to where the ghost was hovering at the fringe of their circle, she asked, "If it is safe?"

"The night is dead and quiet for many miles around," Fëanor replied. "No one but us will hear, if you play softly."

Something in the way he held himself as he answered betrayed a hint of curiosity, though Mina couldn't have pinpointed just what gave her this inkling of interested attention.

Elentar uttered a small groan, but relented, picking up the guitar and removing the cover with quick movements. It gave Mina a start to see the guitar. The instrument looked just the way she had first seen it in Berlin. Staring at her husband, his instrument, illuminated by the flickering flames of the fire, she marvelled at how all of this was possible. Meeting an Elf in Berlin, falling in love with him, becoming pregnant, finding a way back to his world ... She forced her thoughts to still, not to move on to terror and darkest danger.

Elentar bent over the guitar, gently plucking the strings, turning the tuning pegs to the perfect harmony that still resonated within his soul. Then he started playing, and Mina snorted with suppressed laughter. There could be no tune that was farther removed from this place, this world, this situation ... But Elentar gave her a small, wicked grin and continued to play and sing softly: "Here Comes the Sun", the old Beatles song.

**oooOooo**

* * *

**A/N: **I did promise that I would not abandon this story. The promise stands. I hope you enjoyed this chapter and I also hope that the muses and offline life allow me to write the next chapter soon. But I'm not promising anything, of course. 


	25. To Alqualondë

**To Alqualondë**

Mina stared up at the mountain towering above them and tried to catch her breath. The Taniquetil was no longer the Mount Everwhite she had read about in "The Silmarillion" and "The History of Middle-earth". The summit of the mountain had been blasted off in what must have been the equivalent of a gigantic nuclear explosion. The sides of the peak still gleamed in the sunlight. But no longer in the pure white of freshly fallen snow, but in the glassy black of molten stone.

She forced herself to tear her gaze away from the mountain. Bending over slightly, she felt her pounding heart calm down and the stabbing pain of exertion in her sides recede a little. Each breath of the cold mountain air burned her lungs. Mina stared at the path in front of her feet. The mixture of mud and ashes was black and dangerously slick. Clearly she recalled Lothíriel's descriptions of how miserable her first days of walking with the Fellowship had been. But Lothíriel had been nearly twenty years younger than she was. And she hadn't been pregnant. Although the pregnancy was still barely visible, just a gentle swell of her stomach and a general softness to her features, Mina tired easily, and she felt continuously off-balance. She hadn't tried reclaiming her pack from Celebrían. Even so, she was painfully aware that her slow pace endangered all of them. But she simply couldn't walk faster! And all that adrenaline that kept her stomach cramping with fear and rushed in shivery thrills through her veins couldn't be good for her baby!

_Calm, _she thought. _Mina, you must calm down. Or you will never survive this!_

That was entirely the wrong thought to entertain, because it triggered a whole avalanche of feelings that threatened to overwhelm her and leave her a crying, shivering wreck in the black sludge. How could she ever hope to survive this? How could they ever hope to even reach Alqualondë?

_Slow breaths,_ she thought. _Concentrate on breathing out. You can't risk hyperventilating and succumbing to a panic attack. This is neither the time nor the place for panic._ But everything inside her screamed with fear.

"Mina?" Elentar put his arm around her and drew her against the warmth of his body. She shivered violently and had to clench her teeth or she would have started sobbing.

He did not ask her if everything was okay. He did not offer any false reassurance. He simply held her. Held her close until she stopped shaking. Until she could exhale her tension in a sigh and close her eyes, allowing her consciousness to retreat inwards to the new life that was taking form within her womb. Again she felt sure that she would hold her daughter in her arms the moment she was born. That she would delight in the delicate beauty of her baby's Elvish ears. And more, that she would know her daughter as a woman. A woman with children of her own. But how much of this was simply mortal wishful thinking, and how much the foresight of the Eldar that her daughter's presence in her body sent coursing through her veins?

"Better?" Elentar asked at last.

Mina nodded. "Yes. Thank you." She straightened up and dared to inhale deeply. Now, with the panic attack kept at bay, the crisp, cold mountain air felt refreshing and invigorating. Fëanor was nowhere to be seen. But Celebrían was standing a few feet away before the black ruin of a tall tree, her face an expressionless mask. Without the cold, mad gleam sparking in her eyes, she could have been a statue carved from white marble. The only brightness in the desolation of the blackened mountain. The distress of her grandson's wife didn't seem to bother her at all.

Indeed.

"She is too slow, and the exertion is not good for the babe," Celebrían told Elentar, her voice icy and disaffected. "We should not tarry in this darkness."

Elentar stiffened beside Mina. A rush of heat flowing over his skin, she could almost feel the fury flaring up inside of him. She curled cold fingers around his hand. _She's right,_ Mina thought at him.

"What do you suggest?" Elentar asked. How he kept his voice cold and smooth enough to match his grandmother's in spite of the red-hot anger he felt was a mystery to her.

"The ghost can carry her," Celebrían said.

"No."

"A strategy with the added advantage of keeping _him_ in our line of vision," Celebrían added sourly, casting a glance up ahead where the path wound its way around a jagged boulder. Squinting in the twilight between the blackened earth and the darkening sky, it seemed to Mina that a shadowy figure waited for them next to the rock.

"Or so he could carry her off to his Master?" Elentar did not even try to hide the fact that he did not trust his half-crazed grandmother.

"I don't think he would do that," Mina interrupted. _At least not now, while there's still a chance that we might find his wife and help her flee from the Shadow …_

"_Can_ he carry her at all?" Elentar clearly hoped that the answer would be no.

In a gust of darkness and silvery glittering eyes, Fëanor reached the group. "Can he carry her at all? If _he_ cannot carry her, _I_ shall endeavour to bear that burden," he mocked Elentar.

But when he approached Mina, he moved slowly, forcing the shifting shadows of his _fëa_ into a form that was almost … well, not human. But less ghostly.

"Lady," Fëanor whispered, "wouldst thee trust me with thy weight as thee trusteth me with thy life?"

Instinctively, Mina splayed her fingers over her abdomen. She thought of Fëanor's story, what she knew of it. Of Nerdanel. Their unhappy parting. His end in black ashes near Eithel Sirion. A wind or a sigh stirred the ashes at her feet.

"A tendency to treason and treachery was never your problem, sire," she said at last. "But can you really carry me? You must realise that you appear rather … _insubstantial._ No offence."

Instead of an answer, Fëanor came to her and surrounded her with his darkness, wrapping her into his spirit-form as if he were a diaphanous blanket. She bit back a yelp and a gasp of surprise at the same time: lifted up into the air by shadowy arms, she felt as if she were floating. And he wasn't cold! After millennia in the cold of the Halls of Mandos, his spirit was still burning.

When she heard his voice in his mind, it was much softer and more modulated than when he had invaded her thoughts the first time: _Even mighty Fëanaro needs time to relearn the physical world after time unending suspended houseless in the darkness. What arms are for …_

She floated weightless, cradled in the warm, dark embrace of invisible arms.

The look on Elentar's face was priceless.

**oooOooo**

The rest of the journey across the Pelóri seemed like a dark dream to Mina. Now that the ghost carried her, Celebrían and Elentar could run like only the Firstborn can. Swift and fast, silent and surefooted. Even Aman's Fenced Heights barely slowed them down, for despair and fear drove them, with madness not far behind.

But they were lucky, and running day and night, no unnatural shadow descended upon them but the darkness of dusk and the bleakness of starless and moonless nights. Indeed, they did not only escape their foes, they saw no living thing at all. No bird, no bee, no deer, no rabbit, not the smallest flower nor the tallest tree had survived the return of the Shadow to Aman. And only when they descended from the height of the pass to the eastern shores of the Blessed Realm, the zone of destruction that surrounded the Taniquetil gave way again to the deadened perfection of a summer forest frozen on the cusp of summer.

They stopped at what Fëanor and Celebrían thought a safe distance from Alqualondë. Mina thought she could see flecks of white far away between the deceptively fresh green of the trees and the grey expanse of the sea. Perhaps the city had not been blackened like the White Mountain?

"Will they guard the city?" Elentar asked.

Celebrían narrowed her eyes, gazing toward the distant harbour city. Apart from that she was completely motionless, unnaturally so. Once again she reminded Mina of a marble statue. Or of a volcano – the grief and horror and rage inside her ready to explode any moment. _No,_ Mina thought. _Not a volcano. There was no heat to that elf-woman. _Only cold. Fëanor seemed more alive to her now, after having been carried by the ghost for three days and three nights. And his spirit was definitely still fiery. Mina smiled. His intangible embrace had kept her comfortably warm even on the pass, when the winds made even Elentar shiver. No, Celebrían wouldn't burn to ashes when her _hröa_ released her _fëa_; she would turn into an ice-storm, a deadly, icy blizzard. And what was left of her would melt away into cold rivulets of clearest water.

"No," she said at last. "I do not believe the harbour is watched. It seems to me they do not know yet that the Straight Way has been opened. Or that there are Elves again in Middle-earth."

_Again? What about the Elves in the Far East?_ Mina thought. They had always been there, presumably. If Elladan and the kindred of his wife had ever crossed the Eastern Seas successfully, that was. But maybe Celebrían didn't count the Lands of the Sun as a part of Middle-earth. Or she didn't know …

_Don't, _Elentar thought at her, _do not mention my uncle._

Mina felt her cheeks flush with heat and hoped that Celebrían wouldn't notice. Clearly, Elentar didn't trust his grandmother completely. Mina suppressed a sigh and looked away. Elentar was right. While Celebrían seemed to have rallied during the last days and appeared much saner than she had been when they met her, she was certainly not sound of mind. And if she stayed in Aman, trying to reach the fugitives in the caves, she could easily be captured by the enemy …

No, it was wiser if no one knew that there might be many more Elves left in the East than Elrond and his new mortal wife and their scattered allies. She drew a shivery breath.

"But _they_ are not far," Celebrían added.

"They never are," Fëanor said dismissively.

Alqualondë was even more beautiful than Mina had imagined it, her inspiration Tolkien's words, Peter Jackson's movies, and her own love for _art noveau_. But the streets – paved with a stone that glistened like mother of pearl and felt like velvet to the touch – echoed with silence. The windows gazed upon them dark and empty, and many doors stood open as if calling for their inhabitants, or crying for help …

But there was no one left to come.

In passing, Mina plucked a blossom from a man-high stone vase planted with passiflora. The flower crumpled in her fingers liked aged silk paper. This time, she couldn't blink away the tears. Without a word, Elentar took her hand and wrapped his fingers tightly around hers.

"At least there are no corpses," he said tersely.

Mina didn't even try to imagine what experiences from his past made him say that and caused that pinched look on his face. She shuddered violently and swallowed hard, fighting sudden nausea. Not the best conditions for embarking upon a sea voyage.

Celebrían didn't seem to notice the echoing emptiness that surrounded her. Now and again her lips moved as if she were talking to herself, and her eyes crossed slightly, glittering with an intensity that scared Mina. Celebrían might be many things; "sane" was not one of them.

"_They_ are closer than they were," Fëanor hissed suddenly. "Where is that ship you spoke of, woman?"

Celebrían spun around, her lips baring her teeth in a silent snarl. Clearly, she didn't appreciate his manners.

"We don't have time for this, if they are coming!" Elentar growled. "Where _the hell_ is that ship, grandmother?"

"Can you blame me for not looking forward to standing before a reminder of my husband's unfaithfulness?"

_"Ex-husband,"_ muttered Mina, who still couldn't quite believe the story as Celebrían had related it. Of course the Greek gods of earth had produced even worse soap operas. Still. It was not what she had expected to be confronted with upon her arrival in Arda … Mina sighed. If only that was all she had to come to terms with here! Shivering, she drew up her shoulders. There was an air of watchfulness to the empty houses. As if invisible eyes watched her every breath.

"Can we get a move on, please?" she asked and uncomfortably rotated her shoulders. Suddenly she was afraid the ship wouldn't be there. That they'd end up caught between the sea and the Shadow.

But no. It _couldn't_ be. It must not be. She concentrated on her knowledge of her baby daughter's weight on her chest after birth. The sunlight on translucent, pointy ears.

_We'll make it,_ she thought to the little life that lay nestled deep inside her womb. _We'll make it. _You_'ll make it._

They rounded a fishermen's shed to the last quay.

And there it was.

A small, white Elvish sailing ship, fashioned in the lines of a bird, maybe a swan. Graceful. Serene. As if she were waiting for them.

Next to her, Elentar sighed with relief. "An _alph!_ A swanship of the olden days! Praise be! I'll be able to sail her just fine."

As if on cue, Fëanor hissed, whispering a garbled stream of Quenya to Celebrían that Mina didn't understand and that made Elentar blanch.

And then he didn't have to explain, because Mina could feel it.

Heat. And Evil.

_Death._

There were no drums in the deep. But Mina's heart supplied a frantic rhythm that pounded every syllable of dread deep into her brain.

_Balrog._ A Balrog of Morgoth. A foe from the old world.

And then he was upon them, spreading his wings and blacking out the sun, and raining fire and acid down on them, and there were no more thoughts, just action. Jumping off the quay while Fëanor produced two shadowy swords out of thin air, handing one to Celebrían. Blindly following Elentar's orders to pull this rope and jump that way. Groaning wood. Snapping sails. Fire lashing at them from the darkness. Bright arcs of swords dancing, cutting, forwards, backwards –

Until suddenly: wind filled the sails, billowed the canvas and pushed in hard gusts against the ship, as if it wanted to lift it up and throw it out of the harbour and onto the sea. Mina had to kneel and cling to ropes and railing, she couldn't possibly have stayed on her feet. Elentar seemed to be everywhere at once, rigging sail, adjusting the steering wheel, securing the lines.

Behind them the battle raged on. The Balrog, clothed in a thunderstorm of Evil and dread, reached for them, his black power, deathly tendrils of unlight snaking over the waves. But Fëanor's spirit and Celebrían had turned into flashes of lightning. White and bright they split the darkness, striking deep and cold, recklessly, without fear … or hope.

**oooOooo**

* * *

**A/N: **This chapter was written for the first ever "Create for Life" event. Many thanks to my sponsors donating to various cancer-related charities for this chapter, and to my cheerleaders who kept me writing. _Thank you so much. _

As promised, this story is not abandoned. And while I cannot promise when I'll write the next chapter, I do hope it won't take me another three years. Thank you for reading, and for your patience and understanding._  
_


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